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Little  French  Masterpieces 

I.  Prosper  M€rimee 
II.  Gustave  Flaubert 
III.  Th€ophile  Gautier 
IV,  Honore  de  Balzac 
V.  Alphonse  Daudet 

VI.  Guy  de  Maupassant 


LITTLE  FRENCH  MASTERPIECES 


Alphonse  Daudet 

From  a  steel  engraving 


Xittle  ifrcncb  flDaeterplcces 

Edited  by 

Alexander  Jessup 


Alphonse  Daudet 

An  Introduction  by 

,     William  Peterfield  Trent 

Tiie   Translatioii  by  '  ' 

George  Burnham  Ives 


G.  P.   Putnam's   Sons 

New  York  and   London 

XLbc  fcnicF^erbocftcr  press 

1909 


Copyright,  1903 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Zh€  Knicketbocfcer  press,  flew  l^orfc 


Introduction 


C^ii) 


9/6/ 


Alphonse  Daudet 

(1840- 1 897) 

IT  is  not  necessary  to  say  that  the  task  of 
selecting  representative  stories  of  Daudet 
is  rendered  difficult  chiefly  by  the  remarkable 
fecundity,  variety,  and  sustained  power  of  his 
genius.  But  while  it  is  not  necessary  to  say 
this,  in  saying  it  one  really  gives  the  best 
reason  for  undertaking  such  a  task  of  selec- 
tion. For  a  writer  characterised  by  fecundity, 
variety,  and  sustained  power  is  obviously  a 
master  of  his  own  kind,  and  it  is  always  pleas- 
ant and  profitable  to  endeavour,  even  if  it  be 
for  the  thousandth  time,  to  make  the  work  of 
a  master  better  known.  Now  in  this  busy 
age  and  in  this  world  of  many  books — even 
of  many  truly  good  books — it  is  idle  to  expect 
that  the  complete  work,  or  a  large  part  of  the 
work  of  any  master,  save  perhaps  of  a  few 


Introduction 


supreme  ones,  can  get  itself  read  by  more 
than  a  comparatively  small  section  of  the  read- 
ing public.  Yet  the  large,  busy  public  is  by 
no  means  totally  indifferent  to  the  work  of 
the  great  writers  of  whom  it  has  heard  in  a 
more  or  less  vague  way,  and  it  is  generally 
willing  to  acquaint  itself  with  that  work  when 
a  convenient  opportunity  offers.  Experience 
has  shown  that  there  is  no  better  way  to  in- 
terest the  public  in  a  writer  or  a  group  of 
writers  than  by  presenting  it  with  well-chosen 
volumes  of  selections.  Think  of  how  many 
lovers  of  poetry  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 
has  made — surely  far  more  than  the  old  edi- 
tions of  The  British  Poets  in  a  hundred  or 
more  volumes  ever  succeeded  in  making. 
Just  so  in  the  case  of  Daudet,  it  seems  idle 
to  expect  that  our  own  large,  alien  public  can 
find  the  time  to  read,  whether  in  the  original 
or  in  translation,  the  whole  of  his  two  most 
important  collections  of  stories  and  sketches — 
the  Letters  from  My  Mill  (1869)  and  the 
Monday  Tales  (1873).     Much  less  can  it  be 


Introduction 


expected  to  read  the  prose  fantasies  collected 
with  his  poems,  or  the  tales  to  be  found  in 
Artists*  Wives,  in  the  volume  entitled  La 
Fedor,  with  its  descriptive  sub-title,  Pages 
from  Life,  or  elsewhere  among  his  unfortun- 
ately still  scattered  works.*  [See  page  xxiv.] 
For  various  reasons  that  need  not  be  de- 
tailed, it  has  seemed  best  to  take  the  tales  and 
sketches  here  chosen  to  represent  Daudet  from 
the  two  volumes  named  first  above.  One 
reason  is  particularly  cogent,  to  wit,  that  it 
was  these  two  collections  that  Daudet  took 
pains  to  revise  and  enlarge,  transferring  to 
them  stories  that  appeared  first  in  other  col- 
lections. For  example,  the  definitive  Letters 
from  My  Mill  was  augmented  by  several  pieces 
taken  from  the  Sketches  and  Landscapes  that 
originally  followed  Robert  Helmont,  but  are 
no  longer  to  be  found  with  that  interesting 
study  of  war  time.  So  also  several  stories 
were  transferred  from  the  Letters  to  an  Ab- 
sentee to  the  Monday  Tales.  Although  Dau- 
det, sometimes  with  good  reason,  withdrew 

[xi] 


Introduction 


from  circulation  not  a  few  of  his  stories  and 
sketches,  it  is  idle  to  think  that  in  the  case  of  so 
great  a  writer  they  will  remain  in  oblivion,  and 
it  is  much  to  be  wished  that  the  work  of  pre- 
paring the  needed  definitive  and  inclusive  edi- 
tion of  his  writings  should  be  begun  at  once. 
No  thorough  study  of  his  evolution  as  a  short- 
story  writer  can  now  be  made  without  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  securing  books  long 
out  of  print. 

The  two  main  series  of  stories  {Letters  from 
My  Mill  and  Monday  Tales)  contain  between 
sixty  and  seventy  pieces,  of  which  not  quite  a 
third  have  been  selected.  It  is,  of  course,  to 
be  hoped  that  the  new  reader  of  Daudet  will 
be  induced  to  read  both  collections  in  full,  and 
fhat  he  will  pass  on  to  at  least  two  of  the  in- 
imitably humorous  Tartarin  books — Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  and  Tartarin  on  the  Alps — and  to 
the  long  series  of  Daudet's  excellent  novels — 
to  Fromont.Jr.,  and  Risler,  Sr,,  io  Jack,  to  The 
Nabob,  to  Kings  in  Exile,  to  Numa  Roumestan, 
if  to  no  others.     Yet  why  append  the  qualify- 


Introduction 


ing  phrase?  The  reader  who  has  read  these 
books  of  Daudet  is  not  likely  to  wish  to  omit 
even  the  books  of  what  is  often  called  his 
decline — for  example,  The  Immorlal,  with  its 
scathing  satire  on  the  French  Academy.  Nor 
will  such  a  reader,  if  he  be  fairly  able  to  com- 
prehend Continental  views  on  relationships 
not  fully  discussed  by  Englishmen  and  Amer- 
icans, care  to  take  leave  of  Daudet  without 
having  read  what  is  probably  his  strongest 
and  most  artistic  book — the  much  discussed 
Sapho.  And  if  he  have  become  a  true  ad- 
mirer of  Daudet  the  man  —  which  is  what 
nearly  all  his  readers  become  —  he  will  be 
standing  greatly  in  his  own  light  if  he  do  not 
read  that  most  charming  of  youthful  auto- 
biographies, marred  though  it  be  by  the. ro- 
mantic, fictitious  ending,  the  inimitable  Little 
What  *s  His  Name.  But  this  is  no  place  for 
a  catalogue  of  Daudef  s  writings. 

If,  however,  the  reader  of  the  nineteen 
stories  that  follow  is  not  able,  for  one  cause 
or  another,  to  develop  his  acquaintance  with 

[xiii] 


Introduction 


Daudet  into  intimacy,  he  ma}^  comfort  him- 
self with  the  thought  that  he  knows  the  great 
Frenchman  in  what  is  to  many  of  his  admirers 
his  most  attractive  capacity.  It  is  already 
quite  apparent  that  a  number  of  Daudet's 
elaborate  novels  are  not  wearing  well,  and  it 
is  a  question  whether  more  than  two  or  three 
of  them  are  well  enough  constructed  to  bid  de- 
fiance to  time.  One  may  cherish  a  lively  hope 
that  Tartarin  in  his  best  estate  is  destined  to 
live  long  as  a  care-dispeller,  one  may  fear  that 
the  world  will  never  cease  to  need  the  lessons 
taught  by  Sapho,  one  may  believe  that  The 
Nabob,  with  its  wonderfully  effective  scenes 
and  two  or  three  admirably  painted  portraits, 
may  survive  so  as  by  fire.  But  even  Daudet's 
most  devoted  readers  may  well  be  wary  of  pre- 
dicting a  very  long  life  for  many  of  his  other 
novels,  even  for  Numa  Rotimestan,  with  its  ex- 
cellent elements  of  the  true  comedy  of  manners, 
even  for  Fromont,  Jr.,  and  Risler,  Sr,,  with 
its  distinct  power  of  characterisation,  expressed 
especially  in  the  selfish  visionary,  Delobelle, 

[xiv] 


Introduction 


the  actor  out  of  employment  and  living  on  his 
vanity  and  his  wife  and  daughter. 

It  requires  much  less  critical  confidence  and 
courage  to  predict  a  very  long  life,  if  not  practi- 
cal immortality,  for  Daudet's  best  short  stories. 
His  two  chief  collections  represent  in  epitome 
the  main  elements  that  critics  have  discovered 
in  the  man  and  his  work.  They  represent 
Daudet  the  poet,  with  his  exquisite  fancy,  his 
winning  charm,  his  subtle,  indescribable  style, 
his  susceptibility  to  all  that  is  lovely  and  joy- 
ous in  nature  and  in  human  life;  in  short,  in 
his  sunny,  mercurial  Provencal  temperament. 
This  Daudet  is  seen  in  full  measure  in  Letters 
from  My  Mill,  if  indeed  this  book  be  not  the 
most  charming  he  ever  wrote,  the  one  we 
most  often  and  willingly  reread,  the  one  we 
should  choose  for  a  companion  if  we  were 
limited  in  our  choice.  But  there  was  another 
Daudet  more  or  less  superimposed  upon  this 
sunny,  poetic  Daudet,  true  child  of  Provence. 
Upon  few  Frenchmen  of  a  generation  ago  did 
the  terrible  years  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War 

[xv] 


Introduction 


and  the  Commune  produce  a  more  sobering 
impression  than  upon  Daudet.  The  romanti- 
cist and  poet  deepened  into  a  realistic  observer 
of  human  life  in  all  its  phases.  Impressions 
and  fancies  were  more  and  more  supplanted 
by  accurate  notes,  later  carefully  worked  up 
into  novels  that  dealt  in  increasing  measure 
with  the  tragic,  the  sordid,  the  ironical  features 
of  life.  The  poet  and  humourist  did  not,  of 
course,  disappear;  but  they  struggled  with  the 
realist,  the  satirist,  one  might  almost  say,  the 
naturalist.  This  matured,  deepened  Daudet, 
who  finds  his  home  and  chief  interests  in 
seething  Paris  rather  than  in  peaceful  Prov- 
ence, is  seen,  not  to  the  full,  but  to  a  marked 
degree  and  very  attractively  in  the  Monday 
Tales,  The  two  stories  which  a  majority  of 
his  readers  would  select  as  the  most  pathetic 
he  ever  wrote,  The  Last  Class  and  The  Siege 
of  Berlin,  are  in  this  volume.  That  terrible, 
almost  exaggerated  indictment  of  incompe- 
tence in  high  places,  The  Game  of  Billiards, 
is  also  there,  and  so  is  the  effective,  if  somewhat 

[xvl] 


Introduction 


overwrought,  Vision  of  the  Judge  of  Colmar, 
not  here  translated,  but  worth  reading  as 
an  impressive  variation  on  the  theme  of  Dr. 
Hale's  The  Man  Without  a  Country.  Monday 
Tales  contains,  moreover,  some  wonderfully 
vivid  sketches  of  the  gruesome  sights  that 
met  Daudet's  eyes  during  the  siege,  and  thus 
preludes  the  realistic  work  of  later  years.  Yet 
it  has  its  fantasies  and  its  comedies  also.  What 
could  be  better  of  ifs  kind  than  The  Little 
Pies}  What  better  than  that  vivid  reminis- 
cence of  childish  mendacity.  The  Pope  is 
Dead,  the  forerunner  of  the  posthumous  First 
Journey,  First  Falsehood,  itself  a  curious  vari- 
ation on  the  theme  of  Balzac's  A  Start  in  Life  ? 
Still,  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that  it  is  not  the 
lighter  things — even  such  delightful  concep- 
tions as  that  of  the  Parisian  clock  that  trans- 
forms the  manners  and  morals  of  a  respectable 
Munich  family  {The  Bougival  Clock) — that 
give  the  collection  of  Monday  Tales  its  domin- 
ant tone.  The  book  takes  its  colour  for 
many  of  us  from   The  Last  Class,  from   The 

[xvii] 


Introduction 


Siege  of  Berlin,  from  pathetic  sketches  like 
Mothers,  from  other  pictures  of  the  siege, 
especially  from  the  poignant  story  here  given, 
The  Child  Spy, 

But,  important  as  Monday  Tales  is  among 
Daudet's  books  and  among  the  world's  notable 
collections  of  stories,  it  seems  to  yield  pre- 
cedence as  a  book  to  his  earlier  collection. 
Letters  from  My  Mill.  The  old  windmill, 
the  writer's  local  habitation,  and  the  Southern 
setting,  whether  of  Provence  proper  or  of 
Corsica  or  of  Algeria,  lend  the  book  a  unity 
(more  apparent,  it  is  true,  than  real)  and  an 
individuality  that  Monday  Tales  does  not 
possess.  Perhaps  its  nearest  analogue  in  our 
own  literature  is  Hawthorne's  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse,  which  has  a  more  felicitous  title 
and  doubtless  appeals  to  introspective  temper- 
aments more  than  Daudet's  expansive  master- 
piece does.  The  main  point  is,  however, 
that  both-  books  possess  an  atmosphere,  if  we 
may  so  phrase  it;  in  the  one  case  a  typically 
Northern,  in  the  other,  a  typically  Southern 

[xviii] 


Introduction 


atmosphere.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  for  the 
Southern  analogue  to  Hawthorne's  delightful 
book,  we  should  have  to  go  to  French  litera- 
ture, and  not  to  that  other  American  master 
of  the  short  story,  with  his  Southern  rearing, 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  But  Poe  was  at  home  in  a 
land  that  has  no  local  colour,  and  the  curious 
fact  just  noted  becomes  all  the  more  curious 
when  we  remember  what  a  reception  Baude- 
laire and  other  Frenchmen  have  given  to  Poe's 
tales.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  the  two 
republics  interchanging  books  instead  of  shots, 
of  our  lending  the  French  the  Tales  of  the 
Grotesque  and  Arabesque,  of  their  lending  us 
the  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

As  has  already  been  said,  the  Daudet  of  the 
Letters  is  the  sunny  Provencal  poet,  the  ex- 
pansive genius  who  admits  us  to  a  charming 
intimacy.  It  would  be  a  mistake,  however, 
to  suppose  that  the  tales  and  sketches  this 
poet  gives  us  are  mere  happy  improvisations 
thrown  off  in  moments  of  inspiration  by  an 
easy,  affluent  writer  full  of  life   and  youth. 

[xix] 


Introduction 


If  they  were  merely  this  they  would  still  be 
charming,  but  one  would  have  good  cause  to 
doubt  the  permanence  of  their  charm.  It  is 
because  we  know  from  his  biographers  that 
Daudet  put  his  best  art  into  these  slight  stories, 
that  he  would  spend  a  day  wrestling  with  an 
intractable  sentence  or  paragraph,  and  because 
we  know  from  the  best  French  critics  and 
feel  in  our  own  imperfect  way  that  his  style 
is  in  every  sense  individual,  flexible,  sustained, 
and  exquisite  without  a  trace  of  weakness, 
that  we  are  as  sure  as  we  can  be  in  such 
matters  that  the  Letters  from  My  Mitt  will 
live.  We  are  sure  also  that  such  stories  as 
The  Last  Class  and  The  Siege  of  Berlin 
will  live  also,  but  of  the  permanence  of 
Monday  Tales  as  a  whole,  much  more  of  such 
a  collection  as  Artists'  Wives,  we  may  well 
have  a  reasonable  doubt. 

Twelve  of  our  nineteen  pieces  have  been 
selected  from  the  Letters  and  there  are  still 
wonderfully  good  things  left.  The  Stars  is 
an   idyll   no   reader  is   likely  to   forget,  and 

Cxx] 


Introduction 


immediately  upon  it  follows  that  pathetic  do- 
mestic tragedy  of  the  sound-hearted  country 
youth  and  the  depraved  town  girl  {L'Arlesi- 
enne).  The  ''touch  of  nature"  that  makes 
the  whole  world  kin  is  found  in  full  measure 
in  Bixion's  Portfolio;  and  much  of  the  sultry, 
drowsy  beauty  of  the  semi-tropics  in  At 
Milianah,  As  for  the  dozen  miniature  master- 
pieces here  presented,  appreciative  criticism 
seems  superfluous.  Will  one  soon  forget  the 
knife-grinder  shrinking  from  the  jeers  and 
taunts  of  his  fellow  passengers,  or  the  pathetic 
secret  of  the  old  miller,  or  that  delightfully 
told  apologue  of  the  rash  pet  of  Monsieur 
Seguin,  or  the  vengeance  of  the  Pope's  mule, 
or  the  Plutarch  of  the  lighthouse-keeper,  or  the 
truly  effective  sermon  of  the  Abbe  Martin,  the 
Jonathan  Edwards  of  Cucugnan,  or  the  appeal- 
ing picture  of  the  old  couple,  or/the  pathetic 
irony  of  the  death  of  the  little  Dauphin  ?  J" 
Surely  no  one  can  forget  these  things,  and 
just  as  surely  when  stories  and  sketches  stand 
out  as  clearly  in  after  months  and  years  as 

|xxi] 


Introduction 


these  do,  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  master- 
pieces and  as  masterpieces  of  a  particularly 
rare  kind.  For  unless  a  slight  story  be  ex- 
traordinarily w^ll  told  it  slips  the  mind  with 
surprising  facility.  But  there  are  still  four 
pieces  to  mention,  none  of  them  inferior, 
perhaps  all  of  them  not  merely  equal  but 
superior  to  the  tales  that  have  preceded  them. 
The  Legend  of  the  Man  uith  the  Golden 
Brain  is  a  striking  example  of  the  blending 
of  bizarre  fancy  with  deep  imagination.  The 
Three  Low  Masses  points  its  moral  with  a 
grotesque  humour  and  a  picturesque  descript- 
ive power,  to  say  nothing  of  dramatic  force, 
that  are  rarely  found  in  combination.  The 
Two  Inns  opens  up  in  its  eight  short  pages 
an  almost  limitless  vista  of  suffering  and 
patience.  Surely  Matthew  Arnold's  phrase 
''piercing  pathos"  applies  here  if  it  does  to 
anything  in  literature.  Finally,  the  irony  of 
The  Elixir  of  the  Reverend  Father  Gaucher, 
tempered  as  it  is  by  Daudet's  humour  and 
kindliness,  leaves  us  with  a  satisfying  sense 

[xxii] 


Introduction 


of  that  fecundity,  variety,  and  sustained  power 
of  his  genius  which  was  claimed  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  unnecessary  Introduction. 

In  conclusion,  let  us  make  no  mistake  about 
our  phrase  '*  sustained  power."  Readers  of 
one  of  M.  Lemaitre's  delightful  appreciations 
of  Daudet  will  doubtless  have  carried  away 
the  word  *' charm"  as  best  connoting  the 
character  of  Daudet's  genius  and  of  the  effects 
it  produces  upon  his  admirers.  Probably  no 
critic  has  ever  written  of  Daudet  without 
using  this  indefinable  word,  or  some  word 
or  phrase  equivalent  to  it.  Daudet's  work, 
whether  in  his  novels  or  in  his  stories,  lacks 
the  range  and  the  tremendous,  overwhelming, 
titanic  impressiveness  of  Balzac's.  For  some 
of  us  it  lacks  the  firm,  the  ineluctable  art  of 
Maupassant.  But  it  would  seem  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  his  genius  therefore  lacks  sus- 
tained power.  There  are  many  kinds  of 
power,  and  that  exerted  by  charm  is  not  the 
least  potent  of  them,  and  perhaps  the  most 
continuously  satisfying  and  beneficent.     Of 

rxxiii] 


Introduction 


this  powerful  charm,  even  if  it  does  stop 
short  of  enchantment,  Daudet,  in  his  brief 
stories  at  least,  possesses  an  abundance,  and 
because  of  this  fact  his  Letters  from  My  Mill 
bids  fair  to  become  a  possession  forever,  not 
merely  for  France  but  for  the  world. 


A/Tf^*'^-^^^. 


*  Since  the  above  was  written, 
a  complete  edition  of  Daudet's 
works,  in  eighteen  volumes, 
has  been  announced  in  Paris. 
W.  P.  T. 


[xxiv] 


Letters  from  My  Mill 

(1869) 


[11 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence 


t«) 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence 

IT  was  the  day  of  my  arrival  here.  I  had 
taken  the  Beaucaire  diligence,  a  respecta- 
ble old  vehicle  which  had  not  far  to  go  before 
reaching  home  again,  but  which  sauntered  all 
along  the  way,  in  order  to  have  the  appear- 
ance at  night  of  arriving  from  a  long  distance. 
There  were  five  of  us  on  the  imperial,  with- 
out counting  the  driver. 

First,  a  drover  from  Camargue,  a  short, 
thick-set,  hairy  man,  with  an  odour  of  herds, 
and  with  large  bloodshot  eyes,  and  silver 
rings  in  his  ears ;  next,  two  natives  of  Beau- 
caire, a  baker  and  his  son-in-law,  both  very 
red-faced  and  short-breathed,  but  with  mag- 
nificent profiles,  like  two  Roman  medals  with 
the  image  of  Vitellius.  Lastly,  on  the  box- 
seat  with  the  driver,  a  man— no,  a  cap,  an 
enormous  rabbit-skin  cap,  which  did  not  say 

[6] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


much  ana  gazed  at  the  road  with  a  distressed 
expression. 

All  those  people  knew  one  another  and 
talked  aloud  of  their  affairs  very  freely.  The 
man  from  Camargue  said  that  he  had  come 
from  Nimes,  summoned  by  the  examining 
magistrates  because  of  a  blow  with  a  pitch- 
fork that  he  had  dealt  a  shepherd.  Tempers 
are  quick  in  Camargue.  And  what  about 
Beaucaire!  Would  you  believe  that  our  two 
Beaucairians  actually  threatened  to  cut  each 
other's  throats  on  the  subject  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  ?  It  seems  that  the  baker  was  from  a 
parish  devoted  from  time  immemorial  to  the 
Madonna,  to  her  whom  the  Proven(;als  call 
the  Good  Mother,  and  who  carries  the  little 
Jesus  in  her  arms;  the  son-in-law,  on  the 
contrary,  sang  in  the  choir  of  a  brand-new 
church,  consecrated  to  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception, that  lovely  smiling  image  which  is 
represented  with  her  arms  hanging  at  her 
sides  and  her  hands  full  of  rays  of  light.  The 
quarrel   arose    from   that  fact.      You  should 

[61 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence 

have  seen  how  those  two  good  Catholics 
abused  each  other  and  their  Madonnas  : 

*'A  pretty  creature  your  Immaculate 
One  is! " 

''  Get  out  with  your  Good  Mother!  '* 

**She  saw  some  fine  doings  in  Palestine, 
that  hussy  of  yours!  " 

*'And  what  about  yours,  hey?  The  ugly 
witch!  Who  knows  what  she  didn't  do? 
Ask  St.  Joseph." 

Nothing  save  the  gleaming  of  knives  was 
lacking  to  make  us  fancy  that  we  were  on  the 
wharfs  at  Naples;  and  in  faith,  I  believe  that 
that  edifying  theological  contest  would  have 
ended  in  that  way  if  the  driver,  had  not  in- 
terposed. 

**Let  us  alone  with  your  Madonnas,"  he 
said  laughingly  to  the  Beaucairians;  **  that's 
all  women's  nonsense;  men  ought  not  to 
bother  with  it." 

Thereupon  he  cracked  his  whip,  with  a 
skeptical  expression  which  brought  everybody 
over  to  his  opinion. 

C7J 


Alphonse  Daudet 


The  discussion  came  to  an  end,  but  the 
baker,  having  got  started,  felt  that  he  must 
spend  the  rest  of  his  ammunition,  and,  turn- 
ing to  the  unfortunate  cap,  which  sat  silent 
and  melancholy  in  its  corner,  he  said  with  a 
bantering  expression: 

*' And  how  about  your  wife,  knife-grinder — 
which  parish  does  she  favour  ?  " 

Evidently  there  was  some  very  comical  al- 
lusion in  that  question,  for  the  whole  imperial 
roared  with  laughter.  The  knife-grinder  did 
not  laugh.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  heard. 
Observing  that,  the  baker  turned  to  me: 

'*  You  don't  know  his  wife,  do  you,  mon- 
sieur ?  She  's  a  queer  kind  of  a  church  woman ! 
There  are  n't  two  like  her  in  Beaucaire." 

The  laughter  redoubled.  The  knife-grinder 
did  not  budge;  he  simply  said  in  a  low  tone, 
without  raising  his  head : 

'*  Hold  your  tongue,  baker.** 

But  that  devil  of  a  baker  did  not  propose 

to  hold  his  tongue,  and  he   continued  with 

greater  zest : 

[83 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence 

**  Bless  my  soul!  the  fellow  isn't  to  be 
pitied  for  having  a  wife  such  as  she.  No  man 
can  be  bored  for  an  instant  with  her.  Think 
of  it !  a  beauty  who  has  herself  abducted  every 
six  months,  she  always  has  something  to  tell 
you  when  she  comes  home.  It 's  a  curious 
little  household,  I  tell  you.  Just  imagine, 
monsieur,  that  they  had  n't  been  married  a 
year,  when  paff !  the  wife  goes  off  to  Spain 
with  a  chocolate-peddler.  The  husband  was 
left  alone  in  his  house,  to  weep  and  drink. 
He  was  like  a  madman.  After  some  time, 
the  charmer  came  back  to  the  province  dressed 
as  a  Spanish  woman,  with  a  little  tambourine. 
We  all  said  to  her:  *  Keep  out  of  his  way,  or 
he  will  kill  you.'  Kill  her!  not  much!  they 
went  to  living  together  again  as  quietly  as 
you  please,  and  she  taught  him  to  play  the 
tambourine." 

There  was  a  fresh  outburst  of  laughter.  The 
knife-grinder  in  his  corner  muttered  again, 
without  raising  his  head: 

**  Hold  your  tongue,  baker." 

[91 


Alphonse  Daudet 


The  baker  paid  no  heed,  but  continued: 
**  Perhaps  you  think,  monsieur,  that  after 
her  return  from  Spain  the  charmer  kept  still. 
Not  a  bit  of  it;  her  husband  had  taken  the 
thing  so  well  that  it  made  her  inclined  to  try 
it  again.  After  the  Spaniard,  it  was  a  military 
officer,  then  a  boatman  on  the  Rhone,  then  a 
musician,  then  a —  I  don't  know  whom.  The 
amusing  part  of  it  is  that  the  same  comedy  is 
acted  every  time.  The  wife  goes  off,  the  hus- 
band weeps;  she  returns  and  he  is  consoled. 
And  they  keep  on  abducting  her,  and  he  keeps 
on  taking  her  back.  Don't  you  think  that  the 
fellow  has  patience.^  I  must  say,  however, 
that  the  little  woman  's  mighty  pretty — a 
genuine  morsel  for  a  cardinal  :  dainty,  and 
lively,  and  well-built;  and  a  white  skin,  too, 
and  nut-brown  eyes  that  always  laugh  when 
she  looks  at  a  man.     Faith,  my  Parisian,  if 

you  ever  pass  through  Beaucaire " 

'  *  Oh !  hold  your  tongue,  baker,  I  beg  you !  " 
said  the  poor  knife-grinder  once  more,  in  a 
heartrending  tone. 

[10] 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence 

At  that  moment  the  diligence  stopped.  We 
were  at  the  farm  Des  Anglores.  The  two  men 
from  Beaucaire  alighted,  and  I  promise  you 
that  I  did  not  try  to  detain  them.  That  wag 
of  a  baker!  we  could  hear  him  laugh  after  he 
was  in  the  farmyard. 

When  they  had  gone  the  imperial  seemed 
empty.  We  had  left  the  man  from  Camargue 
at  Aries;  the  driver  was  walking  beside  the 
horses.  The  knife-grinder  and  I  were  alone, 
each  in  his  corner,  saying  not  a  word.  It  was 
hot,  and  the  leather  of  the  hood  was  scorch- 
ing. At  intervals  I  felt  my  eyes  close  and  my 
head  become  heavy;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
sleep.  I  had  always  in  my  ears  that  ''hold 
your  tongue,  I  beg  you,"  so  gentle,  yet  so 
heartrending.  He  did  not  sleep,  either,  the 
poor  man;  from  behind  I  could  see  his  broad 
shoulders  quivering,  and  his  hand,  a  long, 
colourless,  stupid  hand,  tremble  on  the  back 
of  his  seat,  like  the  hand  of  an  old  man.  He 
was  weeping. 

**  Here  you  are  at  home,  Parisian,"  the  driver 
(11] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


suddenly  called  to  me;  and  with  the  end  of 
his  whip  he  pointed  to  my  green  hill  with  the 
mill  perched  upon  it  like  a  great  butterfly. 

I  made  haste  to  alight.  As  I  passed  the 
knife-grinder  1  tried  to  look  under  his  cap;  I 
was  anxious  to  see  his  face  before  leaving 
him.  As  if  he  had  understood  my  thought, 
the  wretched  man  abruptly  raised  his  head 
and  fastening  his  eyes  upon  mine,  he  said  in 
a  hollow  voice: 

**Look  well  at  me,  my  friend,  and  if  you 
hear  one  of  these  days  that  there  has  been 
trouble  at  Beaucaire,  you  will  be  able  to  say 
that  you  know  the  man  who  did  it." 

His  face  was  sad  and  lifeless,  with  little 
faded  eyes.  There  were  tears  in  those  eyes, 
but  in  the  voice  there  was  hatred.  Hatred  is 
the  wrath  of  the  weak!  If  I  were  the  knife- 
grinder's  wife,  I  should  be  on  my  guard. 


ti2] 


Master   Cornille's  Secret 


[I3l 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

FRANCE!  MAMAI,  an  old  fifer,  who  comes 
sometimes  to  pass  the  evening  with  me 
and  drink  mulled  wine,  told  me  the  other 
evening  of  a  little  village  drama  which  my 
mill  witnessed  some  twenty  years  ago.  The 
good  man's  story  impressed  me,  and  1  pro- 
pose to  try  to  tell  it  to  you  as  1  heard  it. 

Imagine  for  a  moment,  dear  readers,  that 
you  are  seated  before  a  jar  of  perfumed  wine, 
and  that  it  is  an  old  fifer  who  is  speaking. 

Our  province,  my  dear  monsieur,  has  not 
always  been  a  dead  place,  entirely  unknown 
to  fame,  as  it  is  to-day.  Long  ago  there  was 
a  big  business  done  here  in  grinding  grain, 
and  the  people  from  all  the  farms  within  a 
circuit  of  ten  leagues  brought  us  their  grain  to 
grind.  The  hills  all  around  the  village  were 
covered  with  windmills.     To  right  and  left 

[15] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


one  could  see  nothing  but  the  sails  turning 
about  in  the  mistral  above  the  pines,  long 
strings  of  little  donkeys  laden  with  bags 
climbing  the  hills  and  stretching  out  along  the 
roads;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  all  through 
the  week  the  cracking  of  the  whips  on  the 
hilltops,  the  creaking  of  the  canvas,  and  the 
Dia  hue!  of  the  millers'  men.  On  Sundays 
we  went  to  the  mills  in  groups.  ,The  millers 
treated  to  muscat.  The  millers'  wives  were 
as  lovely  as  queens,  with  their  lace  necker- 
chiefs and  their  gold  crosses.  I  used  to  carry 
my  fife,  and  we  danced  farandoles  till  it  was 
pitch-dark.  Those  mills,  you  see,  were  the 
pleasure  and  wealth  of  our  province. 

Unluckily,  some  Frenchmen  from  Paris  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  setting  up  a  steam  flour- 
mill  on  the  road  to  Tarascon.  Very  fine  and 
new  it  was;  the  people  fell  into  the  habit  of 
sending  their  grain  there,  and  the  poor  wind- 
mills were  left  without  work.  For  some 
time  they  tried  to  keep  up  the  struggle,  but 
steam  was  the  stronger,  and  one  after  another, 

C16J 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

pecatre!  they  were  all  obliged  to  close.  We 
saw  no  more  strings  of  little  donkeys.  The 
millers'  pretty  wives  sold  their  gold  crosses. 
No  more  muscat!  no  more  farandoles  !  No 
matter  how  hard  the  mistral  might  blow, 
the  sails  did  not  move.  Then,  one  fine  day, 
the  commune  ordered  all  those  shanties  torn 
down,  and  vines  and  olive-trees  were  planted 
where  they  stood. 

But,  amid  all  the  distraction,  one  little  mill 
held  out  and  continued  to  turn  bravely  on  its 
hill,  in  despite  of  the  steam-millers.  That  was 
Master  Cornille's  mill,  the  same  one  in  which 
we  are  passing  the  evening  at  this  moment. 

Master  Cornille  was  an  old  miller,  who  had 
lived  for  sixty  years  in  flour  and  was  crazy 
over  his  trade.  The  setting  up  of  the  steam- 
mills  made  him  act  like  a  madman.  For  a 
week  he  ran  about  the  village,  collecting  peo- 
ple round  him  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs  that  they  intended  to  poison  Provence 
with  the  flour  from  the  steam-mills. 

'* Don't  go, there,"  he  would  say;  ''those 

a  tl71 


Alphonse  Daudet 


villains  use  steam  to  make  bread,  steam, 
which  is  an  invention  of  the  devil,  while  I 
work  with  the  mistral  and  the  tramontana, 
which  are  the  breath  of  the  good  Lord  ";  and 
he  would  spout  a  lot  of  fine  words  in  praise 
of  windmills,  but  no  one  listened  to  them. 

Then,  in  a  towering  rage,  the  old  man  shut 
himself  up  in  his  mill,  and  lived  alone  like 
a  wild  beast.  He  would  n't  even  keep  with 
him  his  granddaughter  Vivette,  a  child  of  fif- 
teen, who  since  the  death  of  her  parents  had 
no  one  but  her  grandfather  in  the  world.  The 
poor  child  was  obliged  to  earn  her  living  and 
to  hire  herself  out  among  the  farms  for  the 
harvest,  the  silkworm  season,  or  the  olive 
picking.  And  yet  her  grandfather  seemed  to 
love  the  child  dearly.  He  often  travelled  four 
leagues  on  foot  in  the  heat  of  the  sun  to  see 
her  at  the  farm  where  she  was  working,  and 
when  he  was  with  her,  he  would  pass  hours 
at  a  time  gazing  at  her  and  weeping. 

In  the  province,  people  thought  that  the  old 
miller  had  been  led  by  avarice  to  send  Vivette 

[18] 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

away;  and  it  did  not  do  him  credit  to  allow 
his  grandchild  to  travel  about  that  way  from 
one  farm  to  another,  exposed  to  the  brutality 
of  the  labourers  and  to  all  the  trials  of  young 
women  in  service.  People  thought  it  very 
wrong,  too,  that  a  man  of  Master  Cornille's 
reputation,  who  up  to  that  time  had  shown 
the  greatest  self-respect,  should  go  about 
through  the  streets  like  a  regular  gypsy,  bare- 
footed, with  a  cap  all  holes  and  a  blouse  all 
in  rags.  The  fact  is  that  on  Sunday,  when 
we  saw  him  come  in  to  mass,  we  were 
ashamed  for  him,  we  old  men;  and  Cornille 
felt  it  so  keenly  that  he  did  n't  dare  to  come 
and  sit  in  the  warden's  pew;  he  always  re- 
mained at  the  back  of  the  church,  near  the 
holy-water  vessel,  with  the  poor. 

There  was  something  in  Master  Cornille's 
life  we  could  n't  understand.  For  a  long  time 
no  one  in  the  village  had  carried  him  any 
grain,  and  yet  the  sails  of  his  windmill  were 
always  in  motion  as  before.  In  the  evening, 
people  met  the  old  miller  on  the  roads  driving 

[19] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


before  him  his  donkey  loaded  with  fat  bags 
of  flour. 

**Good  evening,  Master  Cornille,"  the  peas- 
ants would  call  out  to  him;  **is  business  still 
good  ?  " 

'*  Still  good,  my  children,"  the  old  man 
would  reply,  with  a  jovial  air.  *'  Thank  God, 
we  have  no  lack  of  work." 

Then,  if  any  one  asked  where  in  the  devil  so 
much  work  could  come  from,  he  would  put  a 
finger  to  his  lips  and  answer  gravely: 

**  Hush!     1  am  working  for  exportation." 

No  one  could  ever  get  anything  more  from 
him. 

As  for  putting  one's  nose  inside  his  mill,  it 
was  n't  to  be  thought  of.  Even  little  Vivette 
herself  never  went  in  there. 

When  people  passed  in  front  of  it,  they  al- 
ways found  the  door  closed,  the  huge  sails 
moving,  the  old  ass  browsing  on  the  platform, 
and  a  great  thin  cat  taking  a  sun-bath  on  the 
window-sill,  and  glaring  at  them  with  a 
wicked  expression. 

[201 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

All  this  smelt  of  mystery,  and  made  people 
talk  a  great  deal.  Every  one  had  his  own  ex- 
planation of  Master  Cornille's  secret,  but  the 
general  report  was  that  there  were  even  more 
bags  of  silver  in  the  mill  than  bags  of  grain. 

After  a  while,  however,  everything  came  to 
light;  this  is  how  it  happened: 

One  fine  day,  as  I  was  playing  on  my  fife 
for  the  young  people  to  dance,  I  noticed  that 
my  eldest  boy  and  little  Vivette  had  fallen  in 
love  with  each  other.  At  heart  I  was  not  dis- 
pleased, because  after  all  the  name  of  Cornille 
was  held  in  honour  among  us,  and  then  it 
would  have  pleased  me  to  see  that  pretty  little 
bird  of  a  Vivette  trotting  about  my  house. 
But  as  our  lovers  had  often  had  opportunities 
to  be  together,  I  determined,  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents, to  settle  the  business  at  once,  and  I 
went  up  to  the  mill  to  say  a  word  to  the 
grandfather.  Ah !  the  old  sorcerer!  you  should 
have  seen  how  he  received  me!  It  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  induce   him   to  open  his 

[21] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


door.  I  explained  my  reasons  after  a  fashion, 
through  the  keyhole;  and  all  the  time  I  was 
talking,  there  was  that  lean  villain  of  a  cat 
snorting  like  a  devil  over  my  head. 

The  old  man  did  n't  give  me  time  to  finish, 
but  shouted  to  me  most  impolitely  to  go  back 
to  my  fife;  that  if  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to 
marry  my  boy,  I  could  go  and  look  for  a  girl 
at  the  steam-mill.  As  you  can  imagine,  the 
blood  went  to  my  head  when  1  heard  such 
rough  talk;  but  1  was  wise  enough  to  restrain 
myself,  and  leaving  the  old  fool  in  his  mill,  I 
returned  to  inform  the  children  of  my  discom- 
fiture. The  poor  lambs  could  n't  believe  it; 
they  asked  me  as  a  favour  to  allow  them  to  go 
up  together  to  the  mill  and  speak  to  the  grand- 
father. I  had  n't  the  courage  to  refuse,  and^ 
off  my  lovers  went. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  mill.  Master  Cornille 
had  gone  out.  The  door  was  securely  locked ; 
but  the  old  fellow,  when  he  went  away,  had 
left  his  ladder  outside,  and  suddenly  it  occurred 
to  the  children  to  go  in  by  the  window  and 

[S8J 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

see  what  there  might  be  inside  that  famous 
mill. 

What  a  strange  thing!  the  main  room  of 
the  mill  was  empty.  Not  a  sack,  not  a  par- 
ticle of  grain;  not  the  slightest  trace  of  flour 
on  the  walls  or  on  the  spider-webs.  They 
could  n't  even  smell  that  pleasant,  warm  odour 
of  ground  wheat  that  makes  the  air  of  a  mill 
so  fragrant.  The  shaft  was  covered  with  dust 
and  the  huge  thin  cat  was  sleeping  on  it. 

The  lower  room  had  the  same  aspect  of 
poverty  and  neglect:  a  wretched  bed,  a  few 
rags,  a  crust  of  bread  on  one  stair,  and  in  a 
corner  three  or  four  bursted  sacks,  with  rub- 
bish and  plaster  stickmg  out. 

That  was  Master  Cornille's  secret!  it  was 
that  plaster  that  he  paraded  at  night  on  the 
roads,  to  save  the  honour  of  the  mill  and  to 
make  people  think  that  he  made  flour  there. 
Poor  mill !  poor  Cornille  1  Long  ago  the  steam- 
millers  had  robbed  them  of  their  last  customer. 
The  sails  still  turned,  but  the  mill  ground 
nothing. 

1S3J 


Alphonse  Daudet 


The  children  returned  to  me  all  in  tears  and 
told  me  what  they  had  seen.  It  tore  my  heart 
to  listen  to  them.  Without  a  moment's  loss 
of  time  I  ran  to  the  neighbours;  I  told  them 
the  story  in  two  words,  and  we  agreed  in- 
stantly that  we  must  carry  to  Cornille's  mill 
all  the  wheat  there  was  in  the  houses.  No 
sooner  said  than  done.  The  whole  village 
started  off,  and  we  arrived  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  with  a  procession  of  donkeys  loaded  with 
grain,  and  real  grain,  too! 

The  mill  was  wide-open.  In  front  of  the 
door  Master  Cornille  sat  on  a  bag  of  plaster, 
weeping,  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  had 
discovered  on  returning  home  that  during  his 
absence  some  one  had  entered  his  mill  and 
discovered  his  sad  secret. 

''Poor  me!"  he  said.  **Now  there  's  no- 
thing left  for  me  to  do  but  to  die.  The  mill 
is  dishonoured.*' 

And  he  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break, 
calling  his  mill  by  all  sorts  of  names,  speaking 
to  it  as  if  it  was  a  living  person. 

[34] 


Master  Cornille's  Secret 

At  that  moment  the  donkeys  arrived  on  the 
platform  and  we  all  began  to  shout  as  we  did 
in  the  palmy  days  of  the  millers: 

*' Holla!  mill  there!  holla!  Master  Cornille!  " 

And  the  bags  were  piled  up  before  the  door 
and  the  fine  red  grain  strewed  the  earth  in  all 
directions. 

Master  Cornille  stared  with  all  his  eyes.  He 
took  up  some  grain  in  the  hollow  of  his  old 
hand,  and  said,  laughing  and  weeping  at  once: 

*Mt  is  grain!  Lord  God!  real  grain!  Leave 
me;  let  me  look  at  it." 

Then,  turning  to  us: 

'*  Ah !  1  knew  that  you  'd  come  back  to  me. 
All  those  steam-millers  are  thieves." 

We  proposed  to  carry  him  in  triumph  to 
the  village. 

*'No,  no,  my  children,"  he  said;  ''first  of 
all  I  must  give  my  mill  something  to  eat. 
Just  think!  it 's  so  long  since  he  has  had  any- 
thing between  his  teeth !  " 

And  it  brought  the  tears  to  the  eyes  of  us 
all  to  see  the  poor  old  man  rush  about  to  right 

[25] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


and  left,  emptying  the  sacks,  looking  after  the 
millstone,  while  the  grain  was  crushed  and  the 
fine  wheaten  dust  rose  to  the  ceiling. 

I  must  do  our  people  justice:  from  that  day 
we  never  allowed  the  old  miller  to  lack  work. 
Then  one  morning  Master  Cornille  died,  and 
the  sails  of  our  last  mill  ceased  to  turn — this 
time  forever.  When  Cornille  was  dead,  no 
one  followed  in  his  footsteps.  What  can  you 
expect,  monsieur  ?  Everything  has  an  end  in 
this  world,  and  we  must  believe  that  the  day 
of  windmills  has  passed,  like  that  of  barges  on 
the  Rhone,  parliaments,  and  jackets  with  big 
flowers. 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 


[211 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

To  M,  Pierre  Gringoire,  Lyrical  Poet  at  Paris 

YOU  will  always  be  the  same,  my  poor 
Gringoire! 

Think  of  it!  you  are  offered  the  place  of 
reporter  on  a  respectable  Paris  newspaper, 
and  you  have  the  assurance  to  refuse!  Why, 
look  at  yourself,  unhappy  youth!  look  at  that 
worn-out  doublet,  those  dilapidated  breeches, 
that  gaunt  face,  which  cries  aloud  that  it  is 
hungry.  And  this  is  where  your  passion  for 
rhyme  has  brought  you!  this  is  the  result  of 
your  ten  years  of  loyal  service  among  the 
pages  of  my  lord  Apollo!  Are  n't  you 
ashamed,  finally  ? 

Be  a  reporter,  you  idiot;  be  a  reporter! 
You  will  earn  honest  crowns,  you. will  have 
your  special  seat  at  Brebant's,  and  you  will  be 

[29J 


Alphonse  Daudet 


able  to  appear  every  first  night  with  a  new 
feather  in  your  cap. 

No?  You  will  not?  You  propose  to  re- 
main perfectly  free  to  the  end?  Well!  just 
listen  to  the  story  of  Monsieur  Seguin's  goat. 
You  will  see  what  one  gains  by  attempting  to 
remain  free. 

Monsieur  Seguin  had  never  had  good  luck 
with  his  goats.  He  lost  them  all  in  the  same 
way ;  some  fine  morning  they  broke  their  cord 
and  went  off  to  the  mountain,  and  there  the 
wolf  ate  them.  Neither  their  master's  petting, 
nor  fear  of  the  wolf,  nor  anything  else  de- 
terred them.  They  were,  it  would  seem, 
independent  goats,  determined  to  have  fresh 
air  and  liberty  at  any  price. 

Honest  Monsieur  Seguin,  who  was  unable 
to  understand  the  temperament  of  his  beasts, 
was  dismayed.     He  said: 

*M  am  done;  the  goats  are  bored  at  my 
house,  and  I  won't  keep  another  one." 

However,  he  did  fiot  get  discouraged,  and 

[301 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

after  losing  six  goats  all  in  the  same  way,  he 
bought  a  seventh;  but  that  time  he  was  very 
careful  to  buy  a  very  young  one,  so  that  it 
would  be  more  likely  to  become  accustomed 
to  living  with  him. 

Ah!  Monsieur  Seguin's  little  kid  was  such  a 
pretty  thing,  Gringoire!  with  her  soft  eyes, 
her  little  beard  like  a  subaltern's,  her  gleaming 
black  hoofs,  her  striped  horns,  and  her  long 
white  hair,  which  formed  a  sort  of  greatcoat! 
She  was  almost  as  lovely  as  Esmeralda's  goat 
—  do  you  remember,  Gringoire  ?  And  then, 
so  docile,  too,  and  affectionate,  allowing  her- 
self to  be  milked  without  moving,  without 
putting  her  foot  into  the  pail.  A  perfect  little 
love  of  a  kid! 

Monsieur  Seguin  had  an  enclosure  behind 
his  house,  surrounded  by  hawthorn.  There 
he  placed  his  new  boarder.  He  fastened  her 
to  a  stake,  in  the  place  where  the  grass  was 
the  richest,  taking  care  to  give  her  a  long  rope; 
and  from  time  to  time  he  went  to  see  if  she 
was  all  right.     The  kid  was  very  happy  and 

[81] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


browsed  with  such  zest  that  Monsieur  Seguin 
was  overjoyed. 

**  At  last,"  thought  the  poor  man,  *M  have 
one  that  will  not  be  bored  here!  " 

Monsieur  Seguin  was  mistaken;  his  kid 
was  bored. 

One  day  she  said  to  herself,  looking  up  at 
the  mountain: 

*'  How  happy  they  must  be  up  there!  what 
pleasure  to  gambol  about  in  the  heather,  with- 
out this  infernal  cord  that  galls  one's  neck! 
It  is  all  right  for  the  donkey  or  the  ox  to  graze 
in  an  enclosed  place,  but  goats  need  plenty  of 
room." 

From  that  moment,  the  grass  in  the  enclo- 
sure seemed  distasteful.  Ennui  assailed  the 
kid.  She  grew  thin,  her  milk  became  scanty. 
It  was  painful  to  see  her  pulling  at  her  cord  all 
day  long,  with  her  head  turned  towards  the 
mountain,  her  nostrils  dilated,  and  bleating 
sadly. 

Monsieur  Seguin  noticed  that  something  was 
the  matter  with  the  kid,  but  he  did  not  know 

[32] 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

what  it  was.  One  morning  as  he  finished 
milking  her,  the  kid  turned  her  head  and  said 
to  him  in  her  dialect: 

*' Listen,  Monsieur  Seguin;  I  am  dying  in 
your  enclosure;    let  me  go  to  the  mountain.'' 

*'Ah!  mon  Dieu!  this  one,  too!"  cried 
Monsieur  Seguin  in  stupefaction;  and  the 
shock  caused  him  to  drop  his  pail;  then,  seat- 
ing himself  on  the  grass  beside  his  kid,  he 
said : 

**What,  Blanquette,  do  you  want  to  leave 
me?" 

And  Blanquette  replied: 

**Yes,  Monsieur  Seguin." 

**  Have  n't  you  enough  grass  here  }  " 

'*0h,  yes!  Monsieur  Seguin." 

*' Perhaps  you  are  tied  too  short;  do  you 
want  me  to  lengthen  the  rope  ?  " 

*Mt  is  n't  worth  while,  Monsieur  Seguin." 

**  What  is  it  that  you  want,  then  .^" 

**I  want  to  go  to  the  mountain,  Monsieur 
Seguin." 

**Why,  you  wretched  creature,  don't  you 

3  [33] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


know  that  there  is  a  wolf  in  the  mountain  ? 
What  will  you  do  when  he  comes?" 

*'  1  will  butt  him  with  my  horns,  Monsieur 
Seguin." 

' '  The  wolf  does  n't  care  for  your  horns.  He 
has  eaten  goats  with  horns  much  longer  than 
yours.  Don't  you  remember  poor  Renaude 
who  was  here  last  year  ?  A  fine  goat,  as 
strong  and  ill-tempered  as  any  he-goat.  She 
fought  with  the  wolf  all  night,  and  then  in  the 
morning  the  wolf  ate  her." 

''Pecatre!  poor  Renaude!  but  that  does  n't 
make  any  difference  to  me.  Monsieur  Seguin; 
let  me  go  to  the  mountain." 

''Divine  mercy!  ''exclaimed  Monsieur  Se- 
guin; "what  on  earth  does  somebody  do  to 
my  goats  .^  Still  another  one  that  the  wolf 
will  end  by  eating!  But  no!  1  will  save  you 
in  spite  of  yourself,  you  hussy!  and  as  I  am 
afraid  that  you  will  break  your  rope,  1  am 
going  to  shut  you  up  in  the  stable,  and  you 
shall  always  stay  there." 

Thereupon  Monsieur  Seguin  carried  the  kid 

[841 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

to  a  dark  stable,  the  door  of  which  he  locked 
securely.  Unluckily  he  forgot  the  window, 
and  he  no  sooner  had  his  back  turned  than  the 
little  creature  took  her  leave. 

Do  you  laugh,  Gringoire?  Parbleu!  of 
course  you  do;  you  are  of  the  faction  of  the 
goats,  against  poor  Monsieur  Seguin.  We 
will  see  if  you  laugh  in  a  moment. 

When  the  white  kid  arrived  in  the  mount- 
ain there  was  general  rejoicing.  Never  had 
any  of  the  old  fir-trees  seen  anything  so 
pretty.  They  welcomed  her  like  a  little  queen. 
The  chestnuts  bent  to  the  ground  to  caress 
her  with  their  branches.  The  golden  heather 
opened  for  her  to  pass,  and  gave  forth  the 
sweetest  perfume  that  it  could.  The  whole 
mountain  celebrated  her  arrival. 

You  can  imagine,  Gringoire,  whether  our 
kid  was  happy!  No  more  ropes,  no  more 
stakes,  nothing  to  prevent  her  from  gambol- 
ing and  grazing  at  her  pleasure.  That  was 
the  place  where  the  grass  grew!  above  the 
tips  of  her  horns,  my  dear  fellow!     And  such 

135] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


grass!  fine  and  sweet,  made  up  of  a  thousand 
different  plants.  It  was  a  very  different  thing 
from  the  grass  in  the  enclosure.  And  the 
flowers  —  great  blue  bellflowers,  purple  fox- 
gloves with  long  stamens,  a  whole  forest  of 
wild  flowers,  overflowing  with  intoxicating 
juices. 

The  white  kid,  half  tipsy,  played  about 
there  with  her  legs  in  the  air,  and  rolled  down 
the  slopes,  with  the  falling  leaves  and  the 
chestnuts;  then,  of  a  sudden,  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  with  one  leap.  Away  she  went,  with 
her  head  thrust  forward,  through  the  under- 
brush and  the  thickets,  sometimes  on  a  peak, 
sometimes  in  the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  up  and 
down  and  everywhere.  You  would  have 
said  that  there  were  ten  of  Monsieur  Seguin's 
kids  in  the  mountain. 

The  fact  is  that  Blanquette  was  afraid  of 
nothing.  She  crossed  with  one  bound  broad 
torrents  which  spattered  her,  as  she  passed, 
with  misty  spray  and  foam.  Then,  dripping 
wet,  she  stretched  herself  out  on  a  flat  rock 

[36] 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

and  allowed  the  sun  to  dry  her.  Once,  as 
she  crept  to  the  edge  of  a  plateau  with  some 
clover  in  her  teeth,  she  spied  below  her,  in 
the  plain,  Monsieur  Seguin's  house  with  the 
enclosure  behind  it.  That  made  her  laugh, 
until  she  cried. 

**How  tiny  it  is!"  she  said;  *'how  was  T 
ever  able  to  live  there  ?  " 

Poor  dear!  finding  herself  perched  up  there 
so  high,  she  believed  herself  to  be  at  least  as. 
large  as  the  world. 

In  fact  that  was  a  great  day  for  Monsieur 
Seguin's  kid.  About  midday,  as  she  ran  to 
right  and  left,  she  happened  upon  a  band  of 
chamois  which  were  busily  engaged  in  eat- 
ing wild  grapes.  Our  little  white-robed  va- 
grant created  a  sensation.  They  gave  her  the 
best  place  at  the  vine,  and  those  gentlemen 
were  all  very  gallant.  Indeed  it  seems  —  this 
between  ourselves,  Gringoire — that  a  young 
chamois  with  a  black  coat  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  please  Blanquette.  The  two  lovers 
lost  themselves  in  the  woods  for  an  hour  or 

[27] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


two,  and  if  you  would  know  what  they  said 
to  each  other,  go  ask  the  chattering  streams 
that  flow  invisibly  under  the  moss. 

Suddenly  the  wind  freshened.  The  mount- 
ain turned  purple;  it  was  evening. 

**  Already!"  said  the  little  kid;  and  she 
stopped,  much  surprised. 

The  fields  below  were  drowned  in  mist. 
Monsieur  Seguin's  enclosure  disappeared  in 
the  haze,  and  of  the  cottage  she  could  see 
only  the  roof,  with  a  thread  of  smoke.  She 
listened  to  the  bells  of  a  flock  being  driven 
home,  and  her  heart  was  heavy.  A  falcon, 
flying  homeward,  brushed  her  with  his  wings 
as  he  passed.  She  started.  Then  there  arose 
a  howl  in  the  mountain: 

'*Hou!  hou!" 

She  thought  of  the  wolf;  during  the  day 
the  wild  creature  had  not  given  him  a  thought. 
At  the  same  moment  a  horn  blew  in  the 
valley.  It  was  good  Monsieur  Seguin  making 
a  last  effort. 

**Hou!  hou!"  howled  the  wolf. 

[38] 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

**Come  back!  come  back!"  cried  the  horn. 

Blanquette  longed  to  go  back;  but  when 
she  remembered  the  stake,  the  rope,  and  the 
hedge  about  the  enclosure,  she  thought  that 
she  could  never  again  become  accustomed  to 
that  life,  and  that  it  was  better  to  stay  where 
she  was. 

The  horn  ceased  to  blow. 

The  kid  heard  a  rustling  of  leaves  behind 
her.  She  turned  and  saw  in  the  darkness  two 
short,  straight  ears  and  two  gleaming  eyes. 
It  was  the  wolf. 

He  sat  there  on  his  haunches,  enormous, 
motionless,  gazing  at  the  little  white  kid  and 
licking  his  chops  in  anticipation.  As  he  felt 
sure  that  he  should  eat  her,  the  wolf  was  in 
no  hurry;  but  when  she  turned,  he  began  to 
laugh  wickedly. 

*'Ha!  ha!"  Monsieur  Seguin's  little  kid!" 
and  he  passed  his  great  red  tongue  over  his 
lean  chops. 

Blanquette  felt  that  she  was  lost.     For  a 

[39] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


moment,  as  she  remembered  the  story  of  old 
Renaude,  who  had  fought  all  night  only  to 
be  eaten  in  the  morning,  she  thought  that  it 
would  be  better  to  be  eaten  then ;  then,  think- 
ing better  of  it,  she  stood  on  guard,  her  head 
down  and  her  horns  forward,  like  the  brave 
Seguin  goat  that  she  was.  Not  that  she  had 
any  hope  of  killing  the  wolf, —  kids  do  not 
kill  wolves  —  but  simply  to  see  if  she  could 
hold  out  as  long  as  Renaude. 

Thereupon  the  monster  came  forward  and 
the  little  horns  began  to  play. 

Ah!  the  dear  little  kid,  how  courageously 
she  went  at  it!  More  than  ten  times  —  I  am 
not  lying,  Gringoire  —  she  compelled  the  wolf 
to  retreat  in  order  to  take  breath.  During 
these  momentary  respites,  the  little  glutton 
hastily  plucked  another  blade  of  her  dear 
grass;  then  she  returned  to  the  battle  with  her 
mouth  full.  This  lasted  all  night.  From  time 
to  time  Monsieur  Seguin's  kid  glanced  at  the 
stars  dancing  in  the  clear  sky  and  said  to 
herself: 

[40] 


The  Goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin 

**  Oh !  if  only  I  can  hold  out  until  dawn !  " 

One  after  another  the  stars  went  out. 
Blanquette  fought  with  redoubled  fury  with 
her  horns,  the  wolf  with  his  teeth.  A  pale 
gleam  appeared  on  the  horizon.  The  hoarse 
crowing  of  a  cock  came  up  from  a  farm. 

'*  At  last!  "  said  the  poor  creature,  who  was 
only  awaiting  the  dawn  to  die;  and  she  lay 
down  in  her  lovely  white  coat  all  spotted 
with  blood. 

Thereupon  the  wolf  threw  himself  upon 
the  little  kid  and  ate  her. 

Adieu,  Gringoire! 

The  story  you  have  heard  is  not  a  fable  of 
my  invention.  If  ever  you  come  to  Provence 
our  farmers  will  often  speak  to  you  of  *'the 
goat  of  Monsieur  Seguin,  that  fought  the  wolf 
all  night,  and  then,  in  the  morning,  the  wolf 
ate  her  up." 

You  understand,  Gringoire  : 

"  And  then,  in  the  morning,  the  wolf  ate 
her  up.'* 

[411 


The  Pope's  Mule 


f«i 


The  Pope's  Mule 

OF  all  the  clever  sayings,  proverbs,  or  saws 
with  which  our  Provence  peasants  em- 
bellish their  discourse,  I  know  of  none  more 
picturesque  or  more  peculiar  than  this.  Within 
a  radius  of  fifteen  leagues  of  my  mill,  when 
anybody  mentions  a  spiteful,  vindictive  man, 
he  will  say:  *'Look  out  for  that  man!  he  is 
like  the  Pope's  mule,  that  keeps  her  kick  for 
seven  years." 

I  tried  for  a  long  time  to  find  out  the  source 
of  that  proverb,  what  that  Papal  mule  might 
be,  and  that  kick  kept  for  seven  years.  No 
one  here  was  able  to  give  me  any  information 
on  that  subject,  not  even  Francet  Mamai,  my 
fife-player,  who,  however,  has  the  whole  leg- 
endary history  of  Provence  at  his  finger-ends. 
Francet  agrees  with  me  that  there  is  probably 
some  old  tradition  of  Provence  behind  it;  but 

[45] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


he  has  never  heard  it  mentioned  except  in  the 
proverb. 

''You  v^on't  find  that  anywhere  except  in 
the  Grasshoppers'  Library,"  said  the  old  fifer, 
with  a  laugh. 

I  thought  the  suggestion  a  good  one,  and 
as  the  Grasshoppers'  Library  is  right  at  my 
door,  I  shut  myself  up  there  for  a  week. 

It  is  a  wonderful  library,  splendidly  stocked, 
open  to  poets  day  and  night,  the  attendants 
being  little  librarians  with  cymbals,  who  play 
for  you  all  the  time.  I  passed  some  delight- 
ful days  there,  and  after  a  week  of  investiga- 
tion— on  my  back — I  ended  by  discovering 
what  I  wanted  to  know,  that  is  to  say,  the 
story  of  my  mule  and  of  that  famous  kick 
stored  up  for  seven  years.  The  tale  is  a  pretty 
one,  although  slightly  ingenuous,  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  try  to  tell  it  to  you  as  I  read  it  yester- 
day morning  in  a  manuscript  of  the  colour  of 
the  weather,  which  had  a  pleasant  smell  of 
dry  lavender,  with  long  gossamer-threads  for 
book-marks. 


The  Pope's  Mule 


He  who  never  saw  Avignon  in  the  time  of 
the  Popes  has  seen  nothing.  Never  was  there 
such  a  city  for  gayety,  life,  animation,  and  a 
succession  of  fetes.  There  were,  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  processions,  pilgrimages,  streets 
strewn  with  flowers  and  carpeted  with  mag- 
nificent tapestries,  cardinals  arriving  by  the 
Rhone,  with  banners  flying;  gayly  bedecked 
galleys,  the  soldiers  of  the  Pope  singing  in 
Latin  on  the  squares,  and  the  bowls  of  men- 
dicant  friars:  and  then,  from  roof  to  cellar  of 
the  houses  that  crowded  humming  about  the 
great  Papal  palace,  like  bees  about  their  hive, 
there  was  the  tick-tack  of  the  lace-makers' 
looms,  the  rapid  movement  of  the  shuttles 
weaving  gold  thread  for  the  vestments,  the  lit- 
tle hammers  of  the  carvers  of  burettes,  the  key- 
boards being  tuned  at  the  lute-makers',  the 
songs  of  the  $empstressej;  and,  overhead,  the 
clang  of  the  bells,  and  always  a  tambourine  or 
two  jingling  down  by  the  bridge.  For  with 
us,  when  the  common  people  are  pleased,  they 
must  dance  and  dance;  and  as  the  streets  in 


Alphonse  Daudet 


the  city  in  those  days  were  too  narrow  for  the 
farandole,  the  fifes  and  the  tambourines  sta- 
tioned themselves  on  Avignon  Bridge,  in  the 
cool  breezes  from  the  Rhone;  and  there  the 
people  danced  and  danced,  day  and  night. 
Ah!  the  happy  days!  the  happy  city!  Hal- 
berds that  did  not  wound,  state  prisons  where 
they  put  wine  to  cool.  No  famine;  no  wars. 
That  is  how  the  Popes  of  the  Comtat  gov- 
erned the  people;  that  is  why  the  people  re- 
gretted them  so  bitterly. 

There  was  one  especially,  a  good  old  fellow, 
whom  they  called  Boniface.  Ah!  how  many 
tears  were  shed  in  Avignon  when  he  died! 
He  was  such  a  good-natured,  affable  prince! 
He  laughed  so  heartily  from  the  back  of  his 
mule!  And  when  you  passed  him — ^though 
you  were  simply  a  poor  little  digger  of  mad- 
der, or  the  provost  of  the  city — he  would  give 
you  his  blessing  so  courteously!  He  was  a 
genuine  Pope  of  Yvetot,  but  of  a  Provencal 
Yvetot,  with  a  something  shrewd  in  his  laugh- 

(48] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


ter,  a  sprig  of  marjoram  in  his  biretta,  and 
never  a  sign  of  a  Jeanneton.  The  only  Jeanne- 
ton  that  the  old  man  had  ever  been  known  to 
have  was  his  vineyard,  a  tiny  vineyard  which 
he  had  planted  himself,  three  leagues  from 
Avignon,  among  the  myrtles  of  Chateau  Neuf. 
Every  Sunday,  after  vespers,  the  excellent 
man  went  to  pay  court  to  it;  and  when  he 
v/as  there,  seated  in  the  warm  sun,  with  his 
mule  by  his  side  and  his  cardinals  lying  at  the 
foot  of  the  stumps  all  about,  then  he  would 
order  a  bottle  of  native  wine  opened, —  that 
fine,  ruby-coloured  wine  which  was  called 
afterwards  the  Chateau  Neuf  of  the  Popes, — 
and  he  would  drink  it  in  little  sips,  looking  at 
his  vineyard  with  a  tender  expression.  Then, 
when  the  bottle  was  empty  and  the  day  drew 
to  a  close,  he  would  return  merrily  to  the 
city,  followed  by  all  his  chapter;  and  when 
he  rode  over  Avignon  Bridge,  through  the 
drums  and  farandoles,  his  mule,  stirred  by 
the  music,  would  f^ill  into  a  little  skipping 
amble,  while  he  himself  marked  the  time  of 
4  r49i 


Alphonse  Daudet 


the  dance  with  his  cap,  which  scandalised  his 
cardinals  terribly,  but  caused  the  people  to 
say:  *' Ah!  the  kind  prince!  ah!  the  dear  old 
Pope!" 

Next  to  his  vineyard  at  Chateau  Neuf,  the 
thing  that  the  Pope  loved  best  on  earth  was 
his  mule.  The  good  man  fairly  doted  on  the 
beast.  Every  night,  before  going  to  bed,  he 
would  go  to  see  if  his  stable  was  securely 
fastened,  if  anything  was  lacking  in  the  crib; 
and  he  never  rose  from  the  table  until  a  huge 
bowl  of  wine  a  la  Francaise,  with  plenty  of 
sugar  and  spices,  had  been  prepared  under 
his  own  eye,  which  he  carried  to  the  mule 
himself,  despite  the  comments  of  his  cardinals. 
It  should  be  said,  too,  that  the  beast  was  worth 
the  trouble.  It  was  a  fine  black  mule,  dappled 
with  red,  sure-footed,  with  a  glossy  coat,  a 
broad,  full  rump;  and  she  carried  proudly  her 
slender  little  head,  all  bedecked  with  plumes, 
and  ribbons,  and  silver  bells  and  streamers; 
and  as  gentle  as  an  angel  withal,  with  a  mild 

[50] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


eye  and  two  long  ears  always  in  motion, 
which  gave  her  a  most  amiable  aspect.  All 
Avignon  respected  her,  and  when  she  passed 
through  the  streets  there  was  no  attention 
which  the  people  did  not  pay  her;  for  they 
all  knew  that  that  was  the  best  way  to  be  in 
favour  at  court,  and  that,  with  her  innocent 
look,  the  Pope's  mule  had  led  more  than  one 
to  wealth;  witness  Tistet  Vedene  and  his 
wonderful  adventures.    „J 

This  Tistet  Vedene  was  in  truth  an  impu- 
dent rascal,  whom  his  father,  Guy  Vedene, 
the  gold-carver,  had  been  obliged  to  turn  out 
of  his  house,  because  he  refused  to  do  any 
work  and  led  the  apprentices  astray.  For  six 
months  he  was  seen  dragging  his  jacket 
through  all  the  gutters  of  Avignon,  but  prin- 
cipally in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Papal 
palace;  for  the  rogue  had  had  for  a  long  while 
a  scheme  of  his  own  about  the  Pope's  mule, 
and  you  will  see  what  a  mischievous  scheme 
it  was. 

One  day,  when  his  Holiness  all  alone  was 

[511 


Alphonse  Daudet 


riding  by  the  ramparts  on  his  steed,  behold 
my  Tistet  approaches  him,  and  says,  clasping 
his  hands  with  an  air  of  admiration: 

*'Ah!  7non  Dieu!  what  a  fine  mule  you 
have,  Holy  Father!  Just  let  me  look  at  her. 
Ah!  what  a  lovely  mule,  my  Pope!  the  Em- 
peror of  Germany  has  not  her  like." 

And  he  patted  her  and  spoke  softly  to  her, 
as  to  a  maiden: 

*'Come,  my  jewel,  my  treasure,  my 
pearl." 

And  the  excellent  Pope,  deeply  moved, 
said  to  himself: 

*'Whata  nice  little  fellow!  How  nice  he 
is  with  my  mule! " 

And  what  do  you  suppose  happened  the 
next  day  }  Tistet  Ved^ene  exchanged  his  old 
yellow  jacket  for  a  fine  lace  alb,  a  violet  silk 
hood,  and  shoes  with  buckles;  and  he  entered 
the  household  of  the  Pope,  to  which  only  sons 
of  nobles  and  nephews  of  cardinals  had  ever 
been  admitted.  That  is  what  intrigue  leads 
to!      But  Tistet  Vedene  did  not  stop  there. 

[52] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


Once  in  the  Pope's  service,  the  rascal  contin- 
ued the  game  that  had  succeeded  so  well. 
Insolent  with  everybody  else,  he  reserved  his 
attention  and  care  for  the  mule  alone;  and 
he  was  always  to  be  seen  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  palace,  with  a  handful  of  oats  or  a  bunch 
of  clover,  whose  purple  clusters  he  shook  as 
he  glanced  at  the  Holy  Father's  balcony,  as  if 
he  would  say:  ''Look!  for  whom  is  this?" 
The  result  was  that  the  excellent  Pope  finaHy, 
feeling  that  he  was  growing  old,  left  it  to  him 
to  look  after  the  stable  and  to  carry  the  mule 
her  bowl  of  wine  a  la  Fran^aise ;  which  did 
not  make  the  cardinals  laugh. 

Nor  the  mule  either  —  it  did  not  make  her 
laugh.  Now,  when  the  time  for  her  wine 
arrived,  she  always  saw  five  or  six  little  clerks 
of  the  household  enter  her  stable  and  hastily 
bury  themselves  in  the  straw  with  their 
hoods  and  their  lace;  then,  after  a  moment, 
a  delicious  odour  of  (^aramel  and  spices 
filled  the  stable,  and  Tistet  Vedene  appeared, 

[53] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


carefully  carrying  the  bowl  of  wine  a  la 
FratK^aise,  Then  the  poor  beast's  martyrdom 
began. 

That  perfumed  wine  which  she  loved  so 
dearly,  which  kept  her  warm,  which  gave 
her  wings,  they  had  the  fiendish  cruelty  to 
bring  to  her  manger,  to  let  her  inhale  it,  and 
then,  when  her  nostrils  were  full  of  it,  off  it 
went!  the  beautiful  rose-coloured  liquor  dis- 
appeared down  the  throats  of  those  young 
rogues.  And  if  they  had  only  contented 
themselves  with  stealing  her  wine!  but  all 
those  little  clerks  were  like  devils  when  they 
had  been  drinking.  One  pulled  her  ears, 
another  her  tail;  Quiquet  mounted  her  back, 
Beluguet  tried  his  cap  on  her  head,  and  not 
one  of  the  scamps  reflected  that  with  a  sudden 
kick  the  excellent  beast  could  have  sent  them 
all  into  the  polar  star,  or  even  farther.  But 
no!  not  for  nothing  is  one  the  Pope's  male, 
the  mule  of  benedictions  and  indulgences. 
Let  the  boys  do  what  they  would,  she  did  not 
lose  her  temper,  and  she  bore  a  grudge  to 

[54] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


Tistet  Vedene  alone.  But  he — when  she  felt 
him  behind  her,  her  hoofs  fairly  itched,  and  in 
good  sooth  there  was  reason  for  it.  That 
ne'er-do-well  of  a  Tistet  played  her  such 
cruel  tricks !  He  conceived  such  fiendish  ideas 
after  drinking! 

Would  you  believe  that  one  day  he  took  it 
into  his  head  to  make  her  go  up  with  him 
into  the  belfry,  way  up  to  the  highest  point 
of  the  palace!  And  this  that  I  am  telling  you 
is  not  a  fable  —  two  hundred  thousand  Prov- 
encals saw  it.  Just  imagine  the  terror  of  that 
wretched  beast,  when,  after  twisting  blindly 
about  for  an  hour  on  a  winding  staircase, 
and  climbing  I  know  not  how  many  stairs, 
she  suddenly  found  herself  on  a  platform 
dazzling  with  light;  and  a  thousand  feet  below 
her,  a  whole  fantastic  Avignon,  the  stalls  in 
the  market  no  larger  than  walnuts,  the  Pope's 
soldiers  in  front  of  their  barracks  like  red 
ants,  and  yonder,  over  a  silver  thread,  a  little 
microscopic  bridge  where  the  people  danced 
and  danced.     Ah!  the  poor  creature!  what  a 

[55] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


panic!  All  the  windows  in  the  palace  shook 
with  the  bray  that  she  uttered. 

** What's  the  matter?  What  are  they 
doing  to  her?"  cried  the  good  Pope,  rushing 
out  upon  the  balcony. 

**Ah!  Holy  Father,  this  is  what's  the 
matter!  Your  mule  —  mon  Dieu!  what  will 
become  of  us!  —  your  mule  has  gone  up  into 
the  belfry." 

*'A11  alone?" 

**Yes,  Holy  Father,  all  alone.  See!  look 
up  there.  Don't  you  see  the  ends  of  her  ears 
hanging  over,  like  two  swallows  !  " 

*' Merciful  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  poor 
Pope,  raising  his  eyes.  **Why,  she  must 
have  gone  mad!  Why,  she  will  kill  herself! 
Will  you  come  down  here,  you  wretched 
creature  ?  " 

Pecaire!  She  would  have  asked  nothing 
better  than 'to  have  come  down;  but  how? 
As  to  the  staircase,  that  was  not  to  be  thought 
of;  it  is  possible  to  go  up  such  things;  but  in 
going  down  there  is  a  chance  to  break  one's 

[56] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


legs  a  hundred  times.  And  the  poor  mule 
was  in  despair;  as  she  wandered  about  the 
platform  with  her  great  eyes  filled  with  vertigo, 
she  thought  of  Tistet  Vedene. 

**  Ah!  You  villain,  if  I  escape,  what  a  kick 
to-morrow  morning!  " 

That  idea  of  a  kick  restored  a  little  of  her 
courage;  save  for  that,  she  could  not  have 
held  out.  At  last  they  succeeded  in  taking 
her  down;  but  it  was  a  difficult  task.  They 
had  to  lower  her  in  a  litter,  with  ropes  and  a 
jack-screw.  And  you  can  imagine  what  a 
humiliation  it  was  for  the  Pope's  mule  to  be 
suspended  at  that  height,  swinging  about 
with  her  hoofs  in  the  air,  like  a  butterfly  at 
the  end  of  a  string.  And  all  Avignon  looking 
at  her! 

The  wretched  beast  did  not  sleep  that  night. 
It  seemed  to  her  all  the  time  that  she  was 
walking  about  on  that  infernal  platform,  with 
the  city  laughing  below  her;  then  she  thought 
of  that  infamous  Tistet  Vedene,  and  of  the 
dainty  kick  that  she  proposed  to  give  him  in 

[57] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


the  morning.      Ah!  my  friends,  what  a  kick! 
they  would  see  the  smoke  at  Pamperigouste. 

Now,  while  this  pleasant  reception  was  in 
store  for  him  at  the  stable,  what  do  you 
suppose  Tistet  Vedene  was  doing  ?  He  was 
going  down  the  Rhone,  singing,  on  one  of  the 
Pope's  galleys,  on  his  way  to  the  Court  of 
Naples,  with  a  party  of  young  nobles  whom  the ' 
city  sent  every  year  to  Queen  Joanna,  for  train- 
ing in  diplomacy  and  in  refined  manners.  Tistet 
was  not  of  noble  birth;  but  the  Pope  desired  to 
reward  him  for  the  care  he  had  bestowed  upon 
his  mule,  and  above  all  for  the  activity  he  had 
dispjayed  during  the  day  of  rescue, 
-^imagine  the  mule's  disappointment  the  next 
morning! 

''Ah!  the  villain!  he  suspected  something!  " 
she  thought,  as  she  shook  her  bells  savagely; 
''but  never  mind,  you  scoundrel!  you  shall 
have  it  when  you  come  back,  that  kick  of 
yours;  I  will  keep  it  for  you!  " 

And  she  did  keep  it  for  him. 

After  Tistet's  departure,  the  mule  resumed 

[58] 


The  Pope's  Mule 


her  quiet  mode  of  life  and  her  former  habits. 
No  more  Quiquet  or  Beluguet  in  her  stable. 
The  blissful  days  of  wine  d  la  Fraufaise  had 
returned,  and  with  them  good  humour,  the 
long  siestas,  and  the  little  dancing  step  when 
she  crossed  Avignon  Bridge.  Since  her  mis- 
fortune, however,  she  was  always  treated 
rather  coldly  in  the  city.  People  whispered 
together  as  she  passed;  the  old  folks  shook 
their  heads,  and  the  children  laughed  as  they 
pointed  to  the  belfry.  Even  the  worthy  Pope 
himself  had  not  his  former  confidence  in  his 
friend,  and  when  he  allowed  himself  to  take  a 
little  nap  on  her  back,  on  Sundays,  when  he 
returned  from  his  vineyard,  he  always  had 
this  thought:  *' Suppose  I  should  wake  up  on 
the  platform  up  there!  " 

The  mule  saw  that  and  she  was  unhappy 
over  it,  although  she  said  nothing;  but  when 
the  name  of  Tistet  Vedene  was  mentioned 
in  her  presence,  her  long  ears  quivered,  and 
with  a  short  laugh  she  would  sharpen  the  iron 
of  her  little  shoes  on  the  pavemerrL 

[59] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


Seven  years  passed  thus;  and  then,  at  the 
end  of  those  seven  years,  Tistet  Vedene  re- 
turned from  the  Court  of  Naples.  His  time 
there  was  not  at  an  end;  but  he  had  learned 
that  the  Pope's  chief  mustard-bearer  had  died 
suddenly  at  Avignon,  and  as  the  office  seemed 
to  him  a  good  one,  he  returned  in  great  haste 
to  apply  for  it. 

When  that  schemer  of  a  Vedene  entered  the 
great  hall  of  the  palace,  the  Holy  Father  had 
difficulty  in  recognising  him,  he  had  grown 
so  tall  and  so  stout.  It  should  be  said  also 
that  the  Pope  had  grown  old  too,  and  that  he 
could  not  see  well  without  spectacles. 

Tistet  was  not  frightened. 

**What.^  don't  you  recognise  me,  Holy 
Father.^    It  is  Tistet  Vedene." 

*' Vedene.^" 

**Why  yes,  you  know,  the  one  who  used 
to  carry  the  French  wine  to  your  mule." 

*'0h,  yes!  1  remember.  A  good  little  fel- 
low, that  Tistet  Vedene!     And  what  does  he 

want  of  us  now  ?  " 

reo) 


The  Pope's  Mule 


**0h!  a  mere  nothing,  Holy  Father.  I 
came  to  ask  you  —  by  the  way  —  have  you 
still  your  mule  ?  And  is  she  well  ?  Good !  — 
1  came  to  ask  you  for  the  place  of  the  chief 
mustard-bearer,  who  has  just  died." 

.*'You,  chief  mustard-bearer!  why,  you  are 
too  young.     How  old  are  you  ?  " 

**  Twenty  years  and  two  months,  illustri- 
ous pontiff;  just  five  years  older  than  your 
mule.  Ah!  blessed  palm  of  God!  the  excel- 
lent beast!  If  you  only  knew  how  I  loved 
that  mule!  how  I  sighed  for  her  in  Italy!  — 
Won't  you  let  me  see  her  ?  " 

''Yes,  my  child,  you  shall  see  her,"  said 
the  kind-hearted  Pope,  deeply  touched.  "  And 
as  you  are  so  fond  of  the  excellent  beast,  I 
propose  that  you  shall  live  near  her.  From 
this  day,  I  attach  you  to  my  person  as  chief 
mustard-bearer.  My  cardinals  will  make  an 
outcry,  but  so  much  the  worse!  1  am  used 
to  it.  Come  to  us  to-morrow,  when  vespers 
is  done,  and  we  will  deliver  the  symbols  of 
your  office,  in  the  presence  of  our  chapter, 

i6ll 


Alphonse  Daudet 


and  then  —  I  will  take  you  to  see  the  mule, 
and  you  shall  come  to  the  vineyard  with  us 
both.     Ha!  ha! — Now  go!'* 

If  Tistet  Vedene  was  pleased  when  he  left 
the  great  hall,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  im- 
patiently he  awaited  the  ceremony  of  the 
morrow.  Meanwhile,  there  was  some  one 
in  the  palace  still  happier  than  he  and  even 
more  impatient;  that  was  the  mule.  From 
the  hour  of  Vedene's  return  until  vespers  of 
the  following  day,  the  bloodthirsty  creature 
did  not  cease  stuffing  herself  with  oats,  and 
kicking  at  the  wall  with  her  hind  feet.  She, 
too,  was  preparing  for  the  ceremony. 

On  the  morrow,  then,  when  vespers  was  at 
an  end,  Tistet  Vedene  entered  the  courtyard 
of  the  Papal  palace.  All  the  high  clergy  were 
there,  the  cardinals  in  their  red  robes,  the 
advocate  of  the  devil  in  black  velvet, 
the  convent  abbes  with  their  little  mitres, 
the  churchwardens  of  the  Saint-Agrico,  the 
violet  hoods  of  the  household,  the  lower 
clergy  too,  the  Pope's  soldiers  in  full  uniform, 

[C2J 


The  Pope's  Mule 


the  three  brotherhoods  of  penitents,  the  her- 
mits from  Mount  Ventoux  with  their  fierce 
eyes,  and  the  little  clerk  who  walks  behind 
them  carrying  the  bell,  the  Flagellants  naked 
to  the  waist,  the  red-faced  sacristans  in  gowns 
like  judges  —  all,  yes,  all,  even  to  those  who 
hand  the  holy-water,  and  he  who  lights  and 
he  who  extinguishes  the  candles;  not  one 
was  missing.  Ah!  it  was  a  grand  installa- 
tion! Bells,  fireworks,  sunlight,  music,  and, 
as  always,  those  mad  tambourine-players  lead- 
ing the  dance  yonder  on  Avignon  Bridge. 

When  Vedene  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the 
assemblage,  his  presence  and  his  handsome 
face  aroused  a  murmur  of  admiration.  He 
was  a  magnificent  Proveni^al,  of  the  blond 
type,  with  long  hair  curled  at  the  ends  and  a 
small,  unruly  beard  which  resembled  the  shav- 
ings of  fine  metal  from  the  graving-tool  of  his 
father  the  goldsmith.  The  report  was  current 
that  the  fingers  of  Queen  Joanna  had  some- 
times toyed  with  that  light  beard;  and  Sire 
de  Vedene  had  in  truth  the  vainglorious  air 

[68] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


and  the  distraught  expression  of  men  whom 
queens  have  loved.  That  day,  to  do  honour 
to  his  nation,  he  had  replaced  his  Neapolitan 
clothes  by  a  jacket  with  a  pink  border  a  la 
Proveufale,  and  in  his  hood  floated  a  long 
plume  of  the  Camargue  ibis. 

Immediately  upon  his  entrance,  the  chief 
mustard-bearer  bowed  with  a  noble  air,  and 
walked  toward  the  high  dais,  where  the  Pope 
awaited  him,  to  deliver  the  symbols  of  his 
office:  the  spoon  of  yellow  wood  and  the 
saffron-coloured  coat.  The  mule  was  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  all  saddled  and  ready  to 
start  for  the  vineyard.  When  he  passed  her, 
Tistet  Vedene  smiled  affably  and  stopped  to 
pat  her  two  or  three  times  in  a  friendly  way 
on  the  back,  looking  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  to  see  if  the  Pope  noticed  him.  The  po- 
sition was  excellent.     The  mule  let  fly: 

'*  There!  take  that,  you  villain!  For  seven 
years  I  have  been  keeping  it  for  you!  " 

And  she  gave  him  a  terrible  kick,  so  terrible 
that  the  smoke  of  it  was  seen  from  far  Pam- 

IG41 


The  Pope's  Mule 


perigouste,  an  eddying  cloud  of  blond  smoke 
in  which  fluttered  an  ibis-feather — all  that 
remained  of  the  ill-fated  Tistet  Vedene! 

A  mule's  kick  is  not  ordinarily  so  disastrous; 
but  she  was  a  Papal  mule;  and  then,  think 
of  it!  she  had  kept  it  for  him  for  seven  years. 
There  is  no  finer  example  of  an  ecclesiastical 
grudge. 


(66J 


The  Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 


[67) 


The  Lighthouse  of  the 
Sanguinaires 

LAST  night  I  was  unable  to  sleep.  The 
mistral  was  in  angry  mood,  and  the 
outbursts  of  its  loud  voice  kept  me  awake 
until  morning.  The  whole  mill  creaked, 
heavily  swaying  its  mutilated  sails,  which 
whistled  in  the  wind  like  the  rigging  of  a 
ship.  Tiles  flew  from  its  dilapidated  roof. 
In  the  distance  the  pines  with  which  the  hill 
is  covered  waved  to  and  fro  and  rustled  in  the 
darkness.  One  might  have  fancied  oneself 
at  sea. 

It  reminded  me  perfectly  of  my  notable  in-- 
somnia  three  years  ago,  when  I  was  living  at 
the  lighthouse  on  the  Sanguinaires  —  on  the 
Corsican  coast  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bay  of 
Ajaccio. 

Another  charming  little  corner  that,  which 
I  had  found,  to  dream,  and  to  be  alone. 

[69] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


Imagine  an  island  of  a  reddish  colour  and  of 
uncivilised  aspect;  the  lighthouse  at  one  end, 
at  the  other  an  old  Genoese  tower,  where  an 
eagle  lived  in  my  day.  Below,  at  the  water's 
edge,  a  ruined  lazaretto,  overgrown  every- 
where by  weeds ;  and  then,  ravines,  maqtns, 
high  cliffs,  a  few  wild  goats,  and  small  Cor- 
sican  horses  gamboling  about  with  flying 
manes;  and  lastly,  high  in  the  air,  amid  a 
whirlwind  of  sea-birds,  the  lighthouse  with  its 
platform  of  white  masonry,  where  the  keep- 
ers walked  to  and  fro,  the  green  door  with 
its  arched  top,  the  little  cast-iron  tower,  and 
above,  the  huge  lantern  flashing  in  the  sun- 
light and  giving  light  even  during  the  day. 
Such  was  the  island  of  the  Sanguinaires  as  I 
saw  it  again  last  night  while  I  listened  to  the 
roaring  of  my  pines.  It  was  to  that  en- 
chanted isle  that  I  used  sometimes  to  retire, 
when  I  longed  for  fresh  air  and  solitude,  be- 
fore I  owned  a  mill. 

What  did  I  do  there  ?  What  I  do  here,  or 
even  less.     When  the  mistral  or  the  tramon- 

[TO] 


Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 

tana  did  not  blow  too  hard,  I  would  seat  my- 
self between  two  rocks  at  the  water's  edge, 
amid  the  gulls,  and  blackbirds,  and  swallows, 
and  I  would  stay  there  almost  all  day  in 
that  sort  of  stupor  and  delicious  prostration 
which  are  born  of  gazing  at  the  sea.  You 
know,  do  you  not,  that  pleasant  intoxication 
of  the  mind  ?  You  do  not  think;  nor  do  you 
dream.  Your  whole  being  escapes  you,  flies 
away  —  is  scattered  about.  You  are  the  gull 
that  plunges  into  the  sea,  the  spray  that  floats 
in  the  sunlight  between  two  waves  —  the 
white  smoke  of  yonder  steamer  rapidly  dis- 
appearing, that  little  coral  boat  with  the  red 
sail,  that  drop  of  water,  that  fleck  of  mist  — 
anything  except  yourself.  Oh!  how  many 
hours  of  half-slumber  and  of  mental  disper- 
sion have  I  passed  on  my  island! 

On  the  days  when  the  wind  was  high,  the 
shore  no  longer  being  tenable,  I  would  shut 
myself  up  in  the  courtyard  of  the  lazaretto, 
a  small,  melancholy  courtyard,  fragrant  with 
rosemary  and   wild  absinthium;    and  there, 

[71] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


sheltered  behind  a  fragment  of  the  old  wall,  I 
would  allow  myself  to  be  gently  overcome  by 
the  vague  perfume  of  neglect  and  sadness 
which  floated  about  with  the  sunlight  in  the 
stone  cells,  open  on  all  sides  like  ancient 
tombs.  From  time  to  time,  the  closing  of  a 
gate,  a  light  leap  in  the  grass — it  was  a  goat 
coming  to  browse,  out  of  the  wind.  On 
seeing  me,  she  would  stop  in  alarm,  and 
stand  there  before  me,  sharp-eyed,  with  her 
horns  in  the  air,  looking  down  on  me  with  a 
childlike  expression. 

About  five  o'clock,  the  speaking-trumpet  of 
the  keepers  summoned  me  to  dinner.  Then 
I  would  take  a  narrow  path  through  the 
maquis,  rising  almost  perpendicularly  from 
the  sea,  and  I  would  return  slowly  to  the 
lighthouse,  turning  at  every  step  to  gaze  at 
the  boundless  horizon  of  water  and  of  lights 
which  seemed  to  expand  as  I  went  higher. 

Above  it  was  delightful.  I  can  still  see  that 
pleasant  dining-room  with  its  floor  of  broad 

[72] 


Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 

flags,  with  its  oaken  wainscoting,  the  bouil- 
labaisse smoking  in  the  centre,  the  door  wide- 
open  on  the  white  terrace,  and  the  setting  sun 
streaming  in.  The  keepers  were  always 
there,  awaiting  my  arrival  to  sit  down  to  din- 
ner. There  were  three  of  them,  a  Marseillais 
and  two  Corsicans,  all  short  and  bearded, 
with  the  same  tanned  and  wrinkled  faces  and 
the  same  goatskin  caps;  but  entirely  different 
in  manner  and  in  mood. 

The  ways  of  life  of  these  men  betrayed  at 
once  the  difference  between  the  two  races. 
The  Marseillais,  active  and  industrious,  always 
full  of  business,  always  in  motion,  ran  about 
the  island  from  morning  till  night,  gardening, 
fishing,  collecting  gull's-eggs,  lying  in  wait 
in  the  maquis  to  milk  a  goat  on  the  wing; 
and  always  some  aioli  or  stew  in  process  of 
manufacture. 

The  Corsicans,  on  the  other  hand,  did  abso- 
lutely nothmg  outside  their  duties  as  keepers; 
they  looked  upon  themselves  as  functionaries, 
and  passed  the  whole  of  every  day  in  the 

fTSl 


Alphonse  Daudet 


kitchen,  playing  endless  games  of  scopa,  paus- 
ing only  to  light  their  pipes  with  a  solemn 
air,  and  to  cut  with  scissors,  in  the  hollow 
of  their  hand,  the  huge  leaves  of  green 
tobacco. 

For  the  rest,  Marseillais  and  Corsicans  alike 
were  honest,  simple,  artless  fellows,  full  of 
attentions  for  their  guest,  although  after  all 
he  must  have  seemed  to  them  a  most  extra- 
ordinary personage. 

Think  of  it!  the  idea  of  shutting  oneself 
up  in  a  lighthouse  for  pleasure!  And  they 
found  the  days  so  long,  and  were  so  happy 
when  it  was  their  turn  to  go  ashore.  In  the 
summer,  that  great  happiness  happened  once 
a  month.  Ten  days  ashore  for  every  thirty 
days  at  the  light,  that  is  the  rule;  but  in 
winter  there  is  stormy  weather,  and  the  rules 
do  not  hold.  The  wind  blows,  the  sea  rises, 
the  Sanguinaires  are  white  with  foam,  and 
the  keepers  on  duty  are  blockaded  two  or 
three   months  in  succession,  and  sometimes 

under  terrible  circumstances. 

r.74] 


Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 

''This  is  what  happened  to  me,  monsieur," 
said  old  Bartoli  one  day  while  we  were  eat- 
ing dinner, — **this  is  what  happened  to  me 
five  years  ago,  at  this  very  table  that  we  are 
sitting  at,  one  winter's  night,  as  it  is  now. 
That  night,  there  was  only  two  of  us  in  the 
light,  a  man  named  Tcheco  and  myself.  The 
others  were  ashore,  sick  or  on  leave,  I  forget 
which  now.  We  were  finishing  our  dinner 
as  quietly  as  possible.  All  of  a  sudden  my 
comrade  stops  eating,  looks  at  me  a  minute 
with  a  funny  expression,  and  pouf !  down 
he  falls  on  the  table  with  his  arms  out.  I 
go  to  him,  and  shake  him,  and  call  him: 

''M  say,  Tche!    OTche!' 

**Not  a  word!  He  was  dead.  You  can 
imagine  my  state.  I  sat  there  more  than  an 
hour,  dazed  and  trembling  beside  that  corpse, 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  the  thought  came  to 
me:  'And  the  light!'  I  had  just  time  to  go 
up  into  the  lantern  and  light  it.  It  was  dark 
already.  Such  a  night,  monsieur!  the  sea 
and  the  wind  did  n't  have  their  natural  voices. 

[751 


Alphonse  Daudet 


Every  minute  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  some- 
body was  calling  to  me  on  the  stairs.  And 
with  it  all,  such  a  fever  and  such  a  thirst! 
But  you  could  n't  have  induced  me  to  go 
down ;  I  was  too  much  afraid  of  death.  How- 
ever, at  daybreak  my  courage  came  back  a 
little.  I  put  my  comrade  on  his  bed,  with 
a  sheet  over  him,  then  I  said  a  bit  of  a  prayer 
and  set  the  alarm  signal.  Unluckily  the  sea 
was  too  high;  it  didn't  make  any  difference 
how  much  I  signalled,  nobody  came.  And 
there  I  was  alone  in  the  lighthouse  with  my 
poor  Tche,  and  God  only  knows  how  long. 
I  hoped  I  could  keep  him  with  me  till  the 
boat  came;  but  after  three  days,  it  wasn't 
possible.  What  was  I  to  do.^  Carry  him 
outside  ?  Bury  him  ?  The  rock  was  too 
hard,  and  there 's  so  many  crows  on  the 
island.  It  was  a  pity  to  abandon  that  good 
Tcheco  to  them.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  to 
take  him  down  to  one  of  the  cells  in  the 
lazaretto.  That  sad  task  took  me  a  whole 
afternoon,  and  I  tell  you  it  took  courage. 
r76) 


Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 

Look  you,  monsieur,  even  to-day,  when  I  go 
down  to  that  part  of  the  island  on  a  windy 
afternoon,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  the  dead 
man  still  on  my  shoulders." 

Poor  old  Bartoli;  the  sweat  rolled  down  his 
cheeks,  just  from  thinking  of  it. 

Our  meals  passed  in  this  way,  with  plenty 
of  conversation:  the  lighthouse,  the  sea,  stories 
of  shipwreck  and  of  Corsican  bandits.  Then, 
at  nightfall,  the  keeper  who  had  the  first 
watch  lighted  his  little  lamp,  took  his  pipe, 
his  drinking-cup,  a  huge  volume  of  Plutarch 
with  red  edges  —  the  whole  library  of  the 
Sanguinaires  —  and  disappeared.  A  moment 
later,  there  was  throughout  the  house  a  rat- 
tling of  chains  and  pulleys  and  great  clock 
weights  being  wound  up. 

During  that  time,  I  sat  outside  on  the 
terrace.  The  sun,  already  very  low,  sank 
more  and  more  quickly  towards  the  water, 
dragging  the  whole  horizon  after  it.  The 
wind  freshened,   the    island   turned    purple. 


Alphonse  Daudet 


In  the  sky,  close  to  me,  a  great  bird  flew 
heavily  by:  it  was  the  eagle  from  the  Geno- 
ese tower  returning  home.  Little  by  little 
the  mist  rose  from  the  sea.  Soon  one  could 
see  only  the  white  rim  of  foam  around  the 
island.  Suddenly,  over  my  head,  a  great 
flood  of  soft  light  gushed  forth.  The  lantern 
was  lighted.  Leaving  the  whole  island  in 
shadow,  the  clear  light  fell  upon  the  sea, 
and  I  sat  there  lost  in  darkness,  beneath  those 
great  luminous  rays  which  barely  splashed  me 
as  they  passed.  But  the  wind  grew  fresher 
and  fresher.  I  had  no  choice  but  to  go  inside. 
I  closed  the  great  door  by  feeling,  and  secured 
the  iron  bars;  then,  still  feeling  my  way,  I 
ascended  a  little  iron  staircase  which  rang  and 
trembled  under  my  feet,  and  arrived  at  the 
top  of  the  lighthouse.  There,  there  was  light 
enough,  on  my  word. 

Imagine  a  gigantic  Carcel  lamp7*with  six 
rows  of  wicks,  around  which  the  walls  of  the 
lantern  move  slowly,  some  filled  with  an 
enormous  crystal  lens,  the  others  opening  on 

.      [78] 


Lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires 

a  great  stationary  sash,  which  shelters  the 
flame  from  the  wind.  On  entering  I  was 
dazzled.  Those  brasses  and  pewters,  those 
tin  reflectors,  the  convex  crystal  walls  turn- 
ing with  great  bluish  circles,  all  that  quiver- 
ing and  clashing  of  lights  made  me  dizzy  for 
a  moment. 

Gradually,  however,  my  eyes  became  ac- 
customed to  it,  and  I  would  take  my  seat  at 
the  foot  of  the  lamp,  beside  the  keeper,  who 
was  reading  his  Plutarch  aloud,  for  fear  of 
falling  asleep. 

Outside,  darkness  and  the  abyss.  On  the 
small  balcony  which  surrounds  the  lantern 
the  wind  rushes  howling  like  a  madman. 
The  lantern  creaks,  the  sea  roars.  On  the 
point  of  the  island,  over  the  reefs,  the  waves 
break  like  cannon-shot.  At  times  an  invisible 
finger  raps  on  the  glass:  some  night-bird, 
attracted  by  the  light,  dashing  his  head  agamst 
the  lens.  In  the  warm,  glowing  lantern,  no- 
thing save  the  spitting  of  the  flame,  the  drop- 
ping of  the  oil,  the  noise  of  the  chain  as  it 


Alphohse  Daudet 


unwinds,  and  a  monotonous  voice  intoning 
the  life  of  Demetrius. 

At  midnight  the  keeper  rose,  casting  a  last 
glance  at  his  wicks,  and  we  went  down.  On 
the  stairs  we  met  the  comrade  of  the  second 
watch  coming  up,  rubbing  his  eyes;  the  cup 
and  the  Plutarch  were  passed  to  him.  Then, 
before  going  to  bed,  we  entered  for  a  moment 
the  room  .at  the  back,  all  littered  with  chains, 
with  great  weights,  with  pewter  reservoirs, 
and  with  ropes;  and  there,  by  the  light  of  his 
little  lamp,  the  keeper  wrote  on  the  lighthouse 
log,  that  lay  always  open : 

''Midnight.  Heavy  sea.  Storm.  Sail  in 
the  offing." 


C80J 


The  Curd  of  Cucugnan 


181] 


The  Cur^  of  Cucugnan 

EVERY  year,  at  Candlemas,  the  Provencal 
poets  publish  at  Avignon  a  merry  little 
book  filled  to  the  covers  with  fine  verses  and 
pretty  tales.  Last  year's  has  just  reached  me, 
and  I  find  in  it  a  delicious  fabliau,  which  I  am 
going  to  try  to  translate  for  you,  shortening 
it  a  little.  Hold  out  your  sacks,  Parisians. 
It  is  the  very  cream  of  Provencal  flour  that 
I  am  going  to  serve  you  this  time. 

Abbe  Martin  was  Cure  of  Cucugnan. 

As  good  as  bread,  as  honest  as  gold,  he 
loved  his  flock  like  a  father;  in  his  eyes  his 
Cucugnan  would  have  been  paradise  on  earth, 
if  the  people  had  given  him  a  little  more  satis- 
faction. But  alas!  the  spiders  spun  their  webs 
in  his  confessional,  and  on  glorious  Easter  day 
the  consecrated  wafers  lay  untouched  in  the 

1883 


Alphonse  Daudet 


holy  pyx.  The  good  priest's  heart  was  torn, 
and  he  constantly  prayed  to  God  that  he  might 
not  die  before  he  had  brought  back  his  scat- 
tered flock  to  the  fold. 

Now  you  are  about  to  see  that  God  heard 
him. 

One  Sunday,  after  the  Gospel,  Monsieur 
Martin  ascended  the  pulpit. 

*' Brethren,''  he  said,  **you  may  believe  me 
or  not,  as  you  please;  the  other  night  I,  mis- 
erable sinner  that  I  am,  found  myself  at  the 
gate  of  paradise. 

'*1  knocked;  St.  Peter  opened  the  gate. 

'* '  Ah!  is  it  you,  my  dear  Monsieur  Martin,' 
he  said;  'what  good  wind  blows  you  here? 
And  what  can  1  do  for  you  ? ' 

'*  Blessed  St.  Peter,  who  keep  the  record 
and  the  keys,*  could  you  tell  me,  if  I  am  not 
too  inquisitive,  how  many  of  the  people  of 
Cucugnan  you  have  here  in  paradise.?' 

*'  *I  cannot  refuse  you  anything.  Monsieur 
Martin;  sit  down  and  we  will  look  over  the 
book  together.' 

[341 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan 

*'And  St.  Peter  took  down  his  big  book, 
opened  it,  and  put  on  his  spectacles. 

"'Now  let  us  see:  Cucugnan,  you  say.. 
Cu-Cu-Cucugnan,  here  we  are.  Cucugnan. 
My  worthy  Monsieur  Martin,  the  page  is 
entirely  blank.  Not  a  soul;  no  more  Cucug- 
nanese  than  there  are  fish-bones  in  a  turkey.' 

"'What!  nobody  from  Cucugnan  here.^ 
Nobody?    It  is  impossible!  Pray  look  again.' 

"  *No  one,  holy  man.  Look  for  yourself,, 
if  you  think  that  1  am  jesting.' 

>*Tstamped  the  ground,  pecatre!  and,  with 
dasped  hands,  I  prayed  for  mercy.  There- 
upon St.  Peter  said: 

"  *  Look  you,  Monsieur  Martin,  you  must  n't 
turn  your  heart  upside  down  like  this,  for  you 
might  burst  a  blood-vessel.  It  is  n't  your  fault, 
after  all.  Your  Cucugnanese,  you  see,  must 
be  doing  their  little  quarantine  in  purgatory 
for  sure.' 

'"Oh!  in   the  name  of  charity,  great  St. 
^  Peter,  let  me  at  least  see  them,  and  console^ 
them ! ' 

[86] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


***  Willingly,  my  friend.  Here,  put  on 
these  sandals  at  once,  for  the  roads  are  not 
very  good.  That's  all  right;  now,  walk 
straight  ahead.  Do  you  see  the  bend  in  the 
road  yonder?  You  will  find  there  a  silver 
gate  all  studded  with  black  crosses,  at  the 
right.  Knock,  and  it  will  be  opened.  y4deS' 
siasf  keep  well  and  hearty! ' 

''And  I  walked  on  and  on.  What  a  jour- 
ney! My  hair  stands  on  end  even  to  think  of 
it.  A  narrow  path,  full  of  thorns,  of  shiny 
insects,  and  of  hissing  serpents,  led  me  to  the 
silver  gate. 

**Tap!  tap! 

***Who  knocks?'  asked  a  hoarse,  mourn- 
ful voice. 

'*  *  The  Cure  of  Cucugnan/ 

'''Of  what?' 

"  'Of  Cucugnan.' 

"'Ah!  Come  in.' 

"I  went  in.  A  tall,  handsome  angel,  with 
wings  as  black  as  night  and  a  robe  as  brilliant 
as  day,  with  a  diamond  key  hanging  at  his 

[86J 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan 

girdle,  was  writing  —  era,  era  —  in  a  book 
larger  than  that  of  St.  Peter. 

**'Well,  what  do  you  want,  and  whom 
have  you  come  to  see  .?'  asked  the  angel. 

**  '  Beautiful  angel  of  God,  I  wish  to  know 
—  I  am  very  inquisitive,  perhaps  —  if  you 
have  the  Cucugnanese  here  ? ' 

'"'The  who?' 

***The  Cucugnanese,  the  people  from  Cu- 
cugnan; I  am  their  pastor.' 

**  *  Ah!     Abbe  Martin,  is  it  not.?*' 

**  *  At  your  service,  Monsieur  angel.' 

**  *  Cucugnan,  you  say ' 

*' And  the  angel  opened  his  great  book  and 
turned  the  leaves,  moistening  his  finger  with 
saliva,  so  that  the  leaves  would  slip  better. 

** 'Cucugnan,'  he  said  with  a  deep  sigh; 
*  Monsieur  Martin,  we  have  no  one  from  Cu- 
cugnan in  purgatory.' 

'**Jesus!  Mary!  Joseph!  no  one  from  Cu- 
cugnan in  purgatory!  Great  God!  where  are 
they,  then  ?' 

*'*Why,  holy  man,  they  are   in  paradisCc 

[87] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


Where  in  the  deuce  do  you  suppose  they 
are?' 

**  *  But  I  have  just  come  from  paradise.' 

"  *  You  have  just  come  from  there!    well  ?  ' 

'*  *  Well!  they  are  not  there.  Ah!  Blessed 
Mother  of  the  angels! ' 

'**What  do  you  suppose,  monsieur  le 
cure  ?  If  they  are  neither  in  paradise  nor  in 
purgatory,  as  there  is  no  half-way  place,  they 
must  be ' 

'''Blessed  crucifix!  Jesus,  Son  of  David! 
y4i/  ail  is  it  possible.^  Can  it  be  that  great 
St.  Peter  lied.^  Still,  I  did  not  hear  the 
cock  crow!  Ai!  poor  I  !  how  can  I  go  to 
paradise  if  my  Cucugnanese  are  not  there  ?* 

"  'Look  you,  my  poor  Monsieur  Martin,  as 
you  wish  to  be  sure  of  all  this,  let  it  cost  what 
it  may,  and  to  see  the  truth  with  your  own 
eyes,  take  this  path,  and  run  if  you  know  how 
to-  run.  You  will  find  on  the  left  a  great  gate- 
way. There  you  will  learn  everything.  God 
grant  it! ' 

*^And  the  angel  closed  the  gate. 

[88] 


The  Cur6  of  Cucugnan 

I  *Mt  was  a  long  path,  all  paved  with  red-hot 
embers.  I  staggered  as  if  I  had  been  drinking; 
at  every  step  I  stumbled;  I  was  drenched; 
every  hair  on  my  body  had  its  drop  of  sweat 
and  I  was  panting  with  thirst.  But  thanks  to 
the  sandals  which  kind  St.  Peter  had  lent 
me,  I  did  not  burn  my  feet. 

'*  When  1  had  made  enough  missteps  clump- 
ing along,  I  saw  at  my  left  a  gate  —  no,  a 
gateway,  an  enormous  gateway,  open  wide, 
like  the  door  of  a  huge  oven.  Oh!  such  a 
spectacle,  my  children!  There  nobody  asked 
me  my  name;  and  there  was  no  register.  You 
enter  there  in  crowds,  and  without  obstacle, 
my  brethren,  as  you  enter  the  wine-shops  on 
Sunday. 

'*  The  sweat  poured  from  me  in  great  drops, 
and  yet  1  was  stiff  with. cold;  I  shuddered. 
My  hair  stood  on  end.  I  smelt  burning,  roast- 
ing flesh,  something  like  the  smell  which 
spreads  through  Cucugnan  when  Eloy  the 
horseshoer  burns  the  hoofs  of  an  old  ass,  to 
shoe  her.     I  lost  my  breath  in  that  putrid, 

189] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


scorching  air;  I  heard  a  horrible  outcry :  groans 
and  howls  and  oaths. 

*  *  *  Well !  are  you  coming  in,  or  are  n*t  you  ? ' 
asked  a  horned  demon,  pricking  me  with  his 
fork. 

* '  *  I  ?  lam  not  coming  in.  I  am  a  friend  of 
God.' 

***You  are  a  friend  of  God?  Well  then, 
you  scabby  beast,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?' 

***!  have  come  —  ah!  don't  mention  it, 
for  I  can  hardly  stand  on  my  legs  —  I  have 
come  —  I  have  come  a  long  way,  to  ask  you 
humbly,  if — if,  by  any  chance  —  you  happen 
to  have  here  any  one  —  any  one  from  —  from 
Cucugnan?' 

'*  *  Ah!  God*s  fire!  you  play  the  fool,  as  if 
you  did  n't  know  that  all  Cucugnan  is  here. 
See,  you  ugly  crow,  look  about  you,  and  you 
will  see  how  we  deal  with  your  precious  flock 
here.' 

**  And  I  saw  in  the  midst  of  a  frightful  whirl- 
wind of  flame : 

'*Tall  Coq-Galine  —  you    all    know    him, 

[90] 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan 

brethren  —  Coq-Galine,  who  used  to  get 
drunk  s6  often,  and  shook  his  fleas  on  his 
poor  Clairon. 

H-saw  Catarinet,  that  little  hussy,  with  her 
nose  in  the  air,  who  slept  all  alone  in  the  barn. 
You  remember  her,  my  rascals!  But  let  us 
go  on ;  I  have  said  too  much  of  her. 

'*!  saw  Pascal  Doigt-de-Poix,  who  made 
his  oil  with  Monsieur  Julien's  olives. 

**I  saw  Babet  the  gleaner,  who,  when  she 
gleaned,  in  order  to  make  up  her  bundle  more 
quickly,  took  handfuls  from  the  sheaves. 

**I  saw  Master  Grapasi,  who  oiled  the 
wheel  of  his  barrow  so  carefully. 

**And  Dauphine,  who  sold  the  water  from 
his  well  so  dear. 

**And4.eTortillard,  who,  when  he  met  me 
carrying  the  Sacrament,  went  his  way,  with 
his  cap  on  his  head  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
as  proud  as  Artaban,  as  iY"4i^  had  met  a 
dog. 

**  And  Coulau  with  his  Zette,  and  Jacques, 
and  Pierre,  and  Toni " 


Alphonse  Daudet 


Intensely  moved,  white  with  fear,  the  con- 
gregation groaned,  as  they  saw,  through  the 
open  jaws  of  hell,  this  one  his  father,  this  one 
his  mother,  this  one  his  grandmother,  and  this 
one  his  sister. 

*' '  You  must  see,  brethren,'  continued  wor- 
thy Abbe  Martin,  '  you  must  realise  that  this 
cannot  last.  I  have  charge  of  your  souls,  and 
I  am  determined  to  save  you  from  the  abyss 
into  which  you  are  in  a  fair  way  to  plunge 
head  foremost.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  work 
—  no  later  than  to-morrow.  And  work  will 
not  be  lacking.  This  is  how  I  shall  go  about  it. 
In  order  that  all  may  go  well,  we  must  do 
everything  in  an  orderly  manner.  We  will 
work  row  by  row,  as  they  do  at  Jonquieres 
when  they  dance. 

**  To-morrow,  Monday,  I  will  confess  the 
old  men  and  the  old  women.     That  is  nothing. 

**  Tuesday,  the  children.  That  will  not 
take  long. 

'*  Wednesday,  the  boys  and  girls.  That 
may  take  some  time. 

[92] 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan 

**  Thursday,  the  men.  We  will  cut  that 
short. 

** Friday,  the  women.  I  will  say:  'No 
lies ! ' 

** Saturday,  the  miller!  One  day  will  not 
be  too  much  for  him  alone. 

*'  And  if  we  have  finished  Sunday,  we  shall 
be  very  lucky. 

*'  You  see,  my  children,  when  the  grain  is 
ripe,  we  must  cut  it;  when  the  wine  is  drawn, 
we  must  drink  it.  We  have  plenty  of  soiled 
linen  —  it  is  our  business  to  wash  it  and  to 
wash  it  thoroughly. 

**That  is  the  grace  that  I  wish  you. 
Amen!  '* 

What  was  said  was  done.  The  washing 
was  done. 

Since  that  memorable  Sunday,  the  perfume 
of  the  virtues  of  Cucugnan  can  be  smelt  ten 
leagues  away. 

And  the  worthy  pastor.  Monsieur  Martin, 
happy  and  light-hearted,  dreamed  the  other 
night  that,  followed  by  his  whole  flock,  he 

[98] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


climbed  in  a  gorgeous  procession,  amid  lighted 
candles,  a  cloud  of  fragrant  incense,  and  choir- 
boys singing  the  Te  Deum,  the  brilliantly 
lighted  road  to  the  City  of  God. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  the  Cure  of  Cucug- 
nan,  as  I  was  ordered  to  tell  it  you  by  that 
tall  rascal  of  a  Roumanille,  who  heard  it 
himself  from  some  other  jovial  fellow. 


IM| 


Old  Folks 


i«i 


Old  Folks 

"  A  letter,  Father  Azan  ?" 
i\  '*Yes,  monsieur,  it  comes  from  Paris." 
He  was  as  proud  as  a  peacock  that  it  came 
from  Paris,  was  excellent  Father  Azan.  But  not 
I.  Something  told  me  that  that  Parisian  epis- 
tle from  Rue  Jean-Jacques,  falling  upon  my 
table  unexpectedly  and  so  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, would  make  me  lose  my  whole  day.  I 
was  not  mistaken;  see  for  yourself: 

'*You  must  do  me  a  favour,  my  friend. 
You  must  close  your  mill  for  one  day  and  go 
at  once  to  Eyguieres — Eyguieres  is  a  large 
village  three  or  four  leagues  from  you,  just  a 
pleasant  walk.  On  arriving  there,  you  will 
ask  for  the  orphan  convent.  The  next  house 
to  the  convent  is  a  low  house  with  gray 
shutters,  and  a  small  garden  behind.  You 
will  go  in  without  knocking — the  door  is 
always  open — and  as  you  enter,  you  will  say 

7  [9T] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


in  a  very  loud  voice:  **Good  day,  my  good 
people!  I  am  Maurice's  friend!'  Then  you 
will  see  two  old  folks — oh!  very  old,  immeas- 
urably old  —  who  will  hold  out  their  arms  to 
you  from  the  depths  of  their  great  easy-chairs, 
and  you  will  embrace  them  for  me,  with  all 
your  heart,  as  if  they  were  your  own  people. 
Then  you  will  talk;  they  will  talk  about  me; 
nothing  but  me;  they  will  tell  you  a  thousand 
foolish  things,  which  you  will  listen  to  with- 
out laughing. — You  won't  laugh,  will  you  ? — 
They  are  my  grandparents,  two  people  whose 
whole  life  I  am,  and  who  have  not  seen  me 
for  ten  years.  Ten  years  is  a  long  while!  but 
what  can  you  expect  ?  Paris  holds  me  tight, 
and  their  great  age  holds  them.  They  are  so 
old,  that  if  they  should  come  to  see  me  they 
would  fall  to  pieces  on  the  way.  Luckily,  you 
are  in  the  neighbourhood,  my  dear  miller,  and, 
while  embracing  you,  the  poor  people  will 
think  that  they  are  embracing  me  to  some 
extent.  I  have  so  often  written  to  them  of 
you  and  of  the  warm  friendship " 

[98] 


Old   Folks 


The  devil  take  our  friendship!  It  happened 
to  be  magnificent  weather  that  morning,  but 
not  at  all  appropriate  for  walking  on  the 
road;  too  much  mistral  and  too  little  sun- 
shine—  a  genuine  Proven(;aI  day.  When 
that  infernal  letter  arrived,  I  had  already 
chosen  my  cagnard  (place  of  shelter)  between 
two  rocks,  and  1  was  dreaming  of  staying- 
there  all  day,  like  a  lizard,  drinking  light,  and 
listening  to  the  song  of  the  pines.  However, 
what  was  I  to  do  ?  1  closed  the  mill,  grum- 
bling, and  put  the  key  under  the  door.  My 
stick  and  my  pipe,  and  I  was  off. 

1  reached  Eyguieres  about  two  o'clock.  The 
village  was  deserted;  every  soul  was  in  the 
fields.  Under  the  elms  of  the  farmyards,  white 
with  dust,  the  grasshoppers  were  singing  as 
in  the  heart  of  Crau.  There  was  an  ass  tak- 
ing the  air  on  the  square,  in  front  of  the 
mayor's  office,  and  a  flock  of  pigeons  on 
the  church  fountain;  but  no  one  to  point  out 
to  me  the  way  to  the  orphanage.  Luckily  an 
old  fairy  appeared  of  a  sudden,  sitting  in  her 

[99] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


doorway  and  spinning.  I  told  her  what  I 
w^s  looking  for;  and  as  that  fairy  was  very 
powerful,  she  had  only  to  raise  her  distaff: 
instantly  the  orphan  convent  rose  before  me 
as  if  by  magic.  It  was  a  high,  gloomy,  dark 
building,  proud  to  be  able  to  show,  above 
its  ogive  doorway,  an  old  cross  of  red  sand- 
stone with  some  Latin  words  around  it.  Be- 
side it,  I  saw  another  smaller  house.  Gray 
shutters  and  a  garden  behind.  I  recognised 
it  instantly,  and  I  entered  without  knocking. 

As  long  as  I  live  1  shall  never  forget  that 
long,  quiet,  cool  corridor,  with  its  pink  walls, 
the  little  garden  quivering  at  the  rear  through  a 
curtain  of  light  colour,  and  over  all  the  panels 
faded  flowers  and  lyres.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  1  were  entering  the  house  of  some  old 
bailiff  of  the  days  of  Sedaine.  Through  a 
half-opened  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
on  the  left,  I  could  hear  the  ticking  of  a  big 
clock,  and  the  voice  of  a  child,  but  of  a  child 
of  schoolage,  reading  and  pausing  after  each 
\yprd :    * '  Then  —  St.  —  I-re-nae-us  —  cried  — 

[100] 


Old   Folks 


I— am — the — grain — oi—tbc-'-Lbvd. — I—mv.st 
— be — ground — by — the  —  teeth — of — these — 
an-i-mals." 

I  approached  the  door  softly  and  looked 
in. 

In  the  peaceful  half-light  of  a  small  bed- 
room, a  good  old  man  with  red  cheeks, 
wrinkled  to  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  was 
sleeping  in  an  easy-chair,  with  his  mouth 
open  and  his  hands  on  his  knees.  At  his 
feet  a  little  girl  dressed  in  blue  —  big  cape  and 
little  cap,  the  costume  of  the  convent — was 
reading  the  life  of  St.  Irenaeus  from  a  book 
larger  than  herself.  That  miraculous  reading 
had  produced  its  effect  upon  the  whole  house- 
hold. The  old  man  was  sleeping  in  his  chair, 
the  flies  on  the  ceiling,  the  canaries  in  their 
cage  at  the  window.  The  great  clock  snored, 
tick-tack,  tick-tack.  There  was  nothing  awake 
in  the  whole  chamber  save  a  broad  band 
of  light  which  entered,  straight  and  white, 
through  the  closed  shutters,  full  of  living 
sparks  and  microscopic   waltzes.    Amid  the 


flOl] 


Alphpnse  Daudet 


g^n^er^l.  drowsiness,  the  child  gravely  con- 
tinued her  reading:  *' In-stant-ly — two — li- 
ons—rushed—  up — on —  him  —  and  —  ate — 
him — up."  It  was  at  that  moment  that  1 
entered.  The  lions  of  St.  Irenaeus  rushing 
into  the  room  would  not  have  produced 
greater  stupefaction  than  I  did.  A  genuine 
stage  effect!  The  little  girl  shrieked,  the  great 
book  fell,  the  flies  and  canaries  woke,  the 
clock  struck,  the  old  man  sat  up  with  a  start, 
greatly  alarmed,  and  1  myself,  slightly  dis- 
turbed, halted  in  the  doorway  and  shouted 
very  loud : 

**Good  day,  good  people!  I  am  Maurice's 
friend." 

Oh,  if  you  had  seen  the  poor  old  man  then; 
if  you  had  seen  him  come  towards  me  with 
outstretched  arms,  embrace  me,  shake  my 
hands,  and  run  wildly  about  the  room,  ex- 
claiming: 

'"  Mon  Dieu!  mon  Dfeu  !  " 

Every  wrinkle  in  his  face  laughed.  His 
iheeks  flushed,  and  he  stammered: 

[102] 


Old   Folks 


'*Ah!  monsieur;  ah!  monsieur." 

Then  he  hurried  towards  the  end  of  the 
room,  calling: 

'  *  Mamette !  Mamette !  " 

A  door  opened,  there  was  a  mouselike 
tread  in  the  hall;  it  was  Mamette.  Nothing 
could  be  prettier  than  that  little  old  woman, 
with  her  shell-shaped  bonnet,  her  nun's  gown, 
and  the  embroidered  handkerchief  which  she 
held  in  her  hand,  to  do  me  honour,  after  the 
ancient  fashion.  It  was  a  most  touching  thing 
—  they  actually  resembled  each  other.  With 
a  tower  of  hair  and  yellow  shells,  he  too 
might  have  been  named  Mamette.  But  the 
real  Mamette  must  have  wept  bitterly  during 
her  life,  and  she  was  even  more  wrinkled 
than  the  other.  Like  the  other,  too,  she  had 
with  her  a  child  from  the  orphanage,  a  little 
nurse  in  a  blue  cape,  who  never  left  her;  and 
to  see  those  two  people  cared  for  by  those 
two  orphans  was  the  most  touching  picture 
that  one  could  imagine. 

When    she  came   in,   Mamette  began    by 

[103] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


making  me  a  low  reverence,  but  the  old  man 
cut  it  in  two  by  a  word: 

**This  is  Maurice's  friend." 

Instantly  she  began  to  tremble  and  weep, 
she  lost  her  handkerchief,  turned  red,  red  as  a 
peony,  even  redder  than  he.  Those  old  peo- 
ple had  but  a  single  drop  of  blood  in  their 
veins,  and  at  the  slightest  emotion  it  rushed 
to  their. faces. 

** Quick,  quick,  a  chair!"  said  the  old  wo- 
man to  her  little  one. 

*  'Open  the  shutters, "  cried  the  old  man  to  his. 

And,  each  taking  me  by  a  hand,  they  trot- 
ted to  the  window,  which  was  thrown  wide 
open  that  they  might  the  better  see  me.  The 
easy-chairs  were  brought,  and  I  stationed 
myself  between  them  on  a  folding-chair,  the 
little  blue  girls  behind  us,  and  the  questioning 
began. 

**How  is  he?  What  is  he  doing .^  Why 
doesn't  he  come  to  see  us.^  Is  he  happy  .^" 
and  patati!  and  patata!  that  sort  of  thing  for 
hours. 

[104] 


Old   Folks 


For  my  part,  1  answered  all  their  questions 
to  the  best  of  my  ability,  giving  such  details 
concerning  my  friend  as  I  knew,  and  unblush- 
ingly  inventing  those  that  I  did  not  know;, 
above  all,  being  careful  not  to  confess  that  I 
had  never  noticed  whether  his  window  closed 
tightly,  or  what  colour  the  paper  was  on  the 
walls  of  his  bedroom. 

*'The  paper  of  his  bedroom!  it  is  blue^ 
madame,  a  light  blue,  with  flowers." 

**  Really.^"  said  the  poor  old  woman, 
deeply  moved;  and  she  added,  turning  to- 
wards her  husband:  **He  is  such  a  good 
boy ! " 

*'0h,  yes;  he  is  a  good  boy!'*  said  the 
other,  enthusiastically. 

And  all  the  time  I  was  talking,  they  ex- 
changed little  nods  of  the  head,  little  sly 
laughs,  and  winks,  and  significant  glances; 
or  else  the  old  man  would  stoop  over  and  say 
to  me: 

'* Speak  louder.  She's  a  little  hard  of 
hearing." 

[105] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


And  she,  on  her  side: 

'*A  little  louder,  please!  he  doesn't  hear 
very  well." 

Thereupon  I  would  raise  my  voice;  and 
both  would  thank  me  with  a  smile;  and  in 
those  faded  smiles,  leaning  towards  me,  seek- 
ing in  the  depths  of  my  eyes  the  image  of 
their  Maurice,  I,  for  my  part,  was  deeply 
moved  to  find  that  image  in  theirs  —  vague, 
veiled,  almost  intangible,  as  if  I  saw  my  friend 
smiling  at  me,  a  long  way  off,  in  a  mist. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  sat  erect  in  his  chair. 

*'  Why,  it  just  occurs  to  me,  Mamette — per- 
haps he  has  not  breakfasted!" 

And  Mamette,  in  dismay,  tossed  her  arms 
into  the  air: 

*'  Not  breakfasted!     Great  Heaven!  " 

I  thought  that  they  were  still  talking  about 
Maurice,  and  I  was  about  to  reply  that  that  ex- 
cellent youth  never  waited  later  than  noon  for 
his  breakfast.  But  no,  they  were  talking  about 
me;  and  you  should  have  seen  the  commotion 
when  I  confessed  that  1  was  still  fasting. 

[106] 


Old   Folks 


'*Lay  the  table  quick,  my  little  blues;  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  the  Sun- 
day cloth,  the  tlowered  plates.  And  let 's  no* 
laugh  so  much,  if  you  please;  and  make 
haste." 

1  should  say  that  they  did  make  haste. 
They  had  hardly  had  time  to  break  three 
plates  when  the  breakfast  was  ready. 

**A  nice  little  breakfast,"  said  Mamette,  as 
she  led  me  to  the  table,  *'but  you  will  be  all 
alone.    We  have  already  eaten  this  morning-." 

Poor  old  people!  at  no  matter  what  time 
you  take  them,  they  have  always  eaten  that 
morning. 

Mamette's  nice  little  breakfast  consisted  of 
two  fingers  of  milk,  some  dates,  and  a  bar- 
qnette,  som.ething  like  a  shortcake;  enough  to 
support  her  and  her  canaries  for  at  least  a 
week.  And  to  think  that  I  alone  consumed 
all  those  provisions!  What  indignation  about 
the  little  table!  How  the  little  blues  whis- 
pered as  they  nudged  each  other;  and  yonder 
in  their  cage,  how  the  canaries  seemed  to  say 

f  107  1 


Alphonse  Daudet 


to  each  other:  ''Oh!  see  that  gentleman  eat- 
ing  the  whole  barquette  !  " 

I  did  eat  it  all,  in  truth,  and  almost  without 
noticing  it,  occupied  as  1  was  in  looking  about 
that  light,  peaceful  room,  where  the  air  was 
filled  with  an  odour  as  of  ancient  things. 
Above  all,  there  were  two  little  beds  from 
which  I  could  not  remove  my  eyes.  Those 
beds,  almost  cradles,  I  imagined  as  they  looked 
in  the  morning  at  daybreak,  when  they  were 
still  hidden  behind  their  great  French  curtains. 
The  clock  strikes  three.  That  is  the  hour 
when  all  old  people  wake. 

''Are  you  asleep,  Mamette?'* 

"No,  my  dear." 

' '  Is  n't  Maurice  a  nice  boy  }  " 

"Oh!  he  is  a  nice  boy,  indeed." 

And  I  imagined  a  long  conversation  like 
that,  simply  from  having  seen  those  two  little 
beds  standing  side  by  side. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  a  terrible  drama  tak- 
ing place  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  before 
the  cupboard.     It  was  a  matter  of  reaching  on 

[1081 


Old   Folks 


the  top  shelf  a  certain  jar  of  brandied  cherries, 
which  had  been  awaiting  Maurice  ten  years, 
and  which  they  desired  to  open  in  my  honour. 

Despite  the  entreaties  of  Mamette,  the  old 
man  had  insisted  upon  going  to  get  the  cher- 
ries himself;  and,  having  mounted  a  chair,  to 
his  wife's  great  alarm,  he  was  trying  to  reach 
them.  You  can  imagine  the  picture — the  old 
man  trembling  and  standing  on  tiptoe,  the 
little  blues  clinging  to  his  chair,  Mamette  be- 
hind him,  gasping,  with  outstretched  arms, 
and  over  all  a  faint  perfume  of  bergamot, 
which  exhaled  from  the  open  cupboard  and 
.from  the  great  piles  of  unbleached  linen.  It 
was  delightful. 

At  last,  after  many  efforts,  they  succeeded 
in  taking  the  famous  jar  from  the  cupboard, 
and  with  it  an  old  silver  cup,  all  marred  and 
dented,  Maurice's  cup  when  he  was  small. 
They  filled  it  for  me  with  cherries  to  the  brim ; 
Maurice  was  so  fond  of  cherries!  and  while 
serving  me  the  old  man  whispered  in  my  ear 
with  the  air  of  an  epicurean: 

[109] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


**You  are  very  lucky,  you  are,  to  have  a 
chance  to  eat  them.  My  wife  made  them 
herself.  You  are  going  to  taste  something 
good." 

Alas!  his  wife  had  made  them,  but  she  had 
forgotten  to  sweeten  them.  What  can  you 
expect.^  People  become  absent-minded  as 
they  grow  old.  Your  cherries  were  atrocious, 
my  poor  Mamette.  But  that  did  not  prevent 
me  from  eating  them  to  the  last  one,  without 
a  wink. 

The  repast  at  an  end,  I  rose  to  take  leave 
of  my  hosts.     They  would  have  been  glad  to 
keep  me  a  little  longer,  to  talk  about  the  good  • 
boy;  but  the  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  the 
mill  was  f^ir  away,  and  I  must  go. 

The  old  man  rose  as  1  did. 

*'  My  coat,  Mamette.  I  am  going  with  him 
to  the  square." 

Surely  Mamette  believed  in  her  heart  that  it 
was  already  a  little  cool  for  him  to  escort  me 
to  the  square,  but  she  made  no  sign.     How- 
ever, while  she  was  helping  him  to  put  his 
fiioi 


Old   Folks 


arms  into  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  a  fine  coat 
of  the  colour  of  Spanish  snuff,  I  heard  the  dear 
creature  whisper  to  him : 

'*  You  won't  stay  out  too  late,  will  you?" 
And  he,  with  a  little  sly  look: 
'*Ha!  ha!    I  don't  know — perhaps." 
At  that  they  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
laugh,  and  the  little  blues  laughed  to  see^them 
laugh,  and  the  canaries  in  their  corner  laughed 
also  in  their  way.     Between  ourselves,  I  be- 
lieve that  the  odour  of  the  cherries  had  intoxi- 
cated them  all  a  little. 

The  night  was  falling  when  the  grandfather 
and  1  went  out.  The  little  blue  followed  us 
at  a  distance,  to  take  him  home;  but  he  did 
not  see  her  and  he  was  as  proud  as  possible 
to  walk  on  my  arm,  like  a  man.  Mamette, 
with  radiant  face,  saw  that  from  her  doorstep, 
and  as  she  watched  us,  she  nodded  her  head 
prettily,  as  if  to  say: 

''Never  mind,  he  can  still  walk,  my  poor 
old  man! " 


rnii 


The  Death  of  the  Dauphin 


8  [118) 


The  Death  of  the  Dauphin 

THE  little  Dauphin  is  sick;  the  little  Dau- 
phin is  going  to  die.  In  all  the  churches 
of  the  realm  the  Blessed  Sacrament  is  exposed 
'  night  and  day,  and  tall  candles  are  burning  for 
the  recovery  of  the  royal  child.  The  streets 
in  the  old  residence  are  sad  and  silent,  the 
bells  no  longer  ring,  the  carriages  go  at  a  foot- 
pace. About  the  palace  the  curious  citizens 
watch  through  the  iron  grills  the  porters  with 
gilt  paunches  talking  in  the  courtyards  with 
an  air  of  importance. 

The  whole  chateau  is  in  commotion.  Cham- 
berlains, majordomos,  run  hastily  up  and  down 
the  marble  staircases.  The  galleries  are  full 
of  pages  and  of  courtiers  in  silk  garments,  who 
go  from  group  to  group  asking  news  in  under- 
tones. On  the  broad  steps  weeping  maids  of 
honour  greet  one  another  with  low  courtesies, 

[115] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


wiping  their  eyes  with  pretty  embroidered 
handkerchiefs. 

In  the  orangery  there  is  a  great  assemblage 
of  long-robed  doctors.  Through  the  windows 
they  can  be  seen  flourishing  their  long  black 
sleeves  and  bending  majestically  their  hammer- 
like wigs.  The  little  Dauphin's  governor  and 
equerry  walk  back  and  forth  before  the  door, 
awaiting  the  decision  of  the  faculty.  Scullions 
pass  them  by  without  saluting  them.  The 
equerry  swears  like  a  heathen,  the  governor 
recites  lines  from  Horace.  And  meanwhile, 
in  the  direction  of  the  stables  one  hears  a  long, 
plaintive  neigh.  It  is  the  little  Dauphin's 
horse,  calling  sadly  from  his  empty  manger. 

And  the  king  ?  Where  is  monseigneur  the 
king?  The  king  is  all  alone  in  a  room  at  the 
end  of  the  chateau.  Majesties  do  not  like  to 
be  seen  weeping.  As  for  the  queen,  that  is  a 
different  matter.  Seated  at  the  little  Dauphin's 
pillow,  her  lovely  face  is  bathed  in  tears,  and 
she  sobs  aloud  before  them  all,  as  a  linen- 
draper's  wife  might  do. 

[1161 


The  Death  of  the  Dauphin 

In  his  lace-bedecked  crib  the  little  Dauphin, 
whiter  than  the  cushions  upon  which  he 
lies,  is  resting  now  with  closed  eyes.  They 
think  that  he  sleeps;  but  no.  The  little  Dau- 
phin is  not  asleep.  He  turns  to  his  mother, 
and  seeing  that  she  is  weeping,  he  says  to 
her: 

** Madame  queen,  why  do  you  weep?  Is 
it  because  you  really  believe  that  I  am  going 
to  die  ?'' 

The  queen  tries  to  reply.  Sobs  prevent  her 
from  speaking. 

''Pray  do  not  weep,  madame  queen;  you 
forget  that  I  am  the  Dauphin,  and  that  dau- 
phins cannot  die  like  this." 

The  queen  sobs  more  bitterly  than  ever,  and 
the  little  Dauphin  begins  to  be  alarmed. 

*'l  say,"  he  says,  *'I  don't  want  Death  to 
come  and  take  me,  and  I  will  find  a  way  to 
prevent  his  coming  here.  Let  them  send  at 
once  forty  very  strong  troopers  to  stand  guard 
around  our  bed!  Let  a  hundred  big  guns 
watch  night  and  day,  with  matches  lighted, 

[117) 


Alphonse  Daudet 


under  our  windows!     And  woe  to  Death  if 
it  dares  approach  us!  '* 

To  please  the  royal  child  the  queen  makes^'\^ 
a  sign.  In  a  moment  they  hear  the  big  guns 
rumbling  through  the  courtyard;  and  forty 
tall  troopers,  halberds  in  hand,  take  their  places 
about  the  room.  They  are  all  old  soldiers 
with  gray  mustaches.  The  little  Dauphin 
claps  his  hands  when  he  sees  them.  He  re- 
cognises one  of  them  and  calls  him : 

*'  Lorrain!  Lorrain!'* 

The  soldier  steps  forward  towards  the  bed. 

'M  love  you  dearly,  my  old  Lorrain.  Let 
me  see  your  big  sword.  If  Death  tries  to  take 
me  you  must  kill  him,  won't  you  ?" 

**Yes,  monseigneur,"  Lorrain  replies.  And 
two  great  tears  roll  down  his  bronzed  cheeks. 

At  that  moment  the  chaplain  approaches 
the  little  Dauphin  and  talks  with  him  for  a 
long  time  in  a  low  voice,  showing  him  a 
crucifix.  The  little  Dauphin  listens  with  an 
expression  of  great  surprise,  then,  abruptly 
interrupting  him,  he  says: 

[118) 


The  Death  of  the  Dauphin 

**I  understand  what  you  say,  monsieur 
I'abbe;  but  tell  me,  couldn't  my  little  friend 
Beppo  die  in  my  place,  if  I  gave  him  a  lot  of 
money  ?  " 

The  chaplain  continues  to  speak  in  a  low 
voice,  and  the  little  Dauphin's  expression 
becomes  more  and  more  astonished. 

When  the  chaplain  has  finished,  the  little 
Dauphin  replies  with  a  deep  sigh : 

'*A11  this  that  you  tell  me  is  very  sad, 
monsieur  I'abbe;  but  one  thing  consoles  me, 
and  that  is  that  up  yonder,  in  the  paradise  of 
the  stars,  I  shall  still  be  the  Dauphin.  I  know 
that  the  good  Lord  is  my  cousin,  and  that  He 
cannot  fail  to  treat  me  according  to  my  rank." 

Then  he  adds,  turning  to  his  mother: 

**  Let  them  bring  me  my  richest  clothes,  my 
doublet  of  white  ermine  and  my  velvet  slippers! 
I  wish  to  make  myself  handsome  for  the 
angels,  and  to  enter  paradise  in  the  costume 
of  a  Dauphin." 

A  third  time,  the  chaplain  leans  towards  the 
little  Dauphin  and  talks  to  him  for  a  long  time 

[119) 


Alphonse  Daudet 


in  a  low  voice.  In  the  midst  of  his  harangue, 
the  royal  child  angrily  interrupts : 

'*  Why  then,  to  be  Dauphin  is  to  be  nothing 
at  all!" 

And,  refusing  to  listen  to  anything  more, 
the  little  Dauphin  turns  towards  the  wall  and 
weeps  bitterly. 


[120} 


The  Legend   of  the   Man  with  the 
Golden   Brain 


[121] 


The  Legend  of  the  Man  with 
the  Golden  Brain 

ON  reading  your  letter,  madame,  I  had  a 
feeling  of  remorse.  I  was  angry  with 
myself  for  the  rather  too  doleful  colour  of  my 
stories,  and  I  am  determined  to  offer  you  to- 
day something  joyous,  yes,  wildly  joyous. 

For  why  should  I  be  melancholy,  after  all  ? 
I  live  a  thousand  leagues  from  Parisian  fogs, 
on  a  hill  bathed  in  light,  in  the  land  of 
tambourines  and  muscat  wine.  About  me, 
everything  is  sunshine  and  music;  I  have 
orchestras  of  finches,  choruses  of  tomtits;  in 
the  morning  the  curlews  say:  '^Cureli!  cure- 
li!  ";  at  noon,  the  grasshoppers;  and  then  the 
shepherds  playing  their  fifes,  and  the  lovely 
dark-faced  girls  whom  I  hear  laughing  among 
the  vines.  In  truth,  the  spot  is  ill-chosen  to 
paint  in  black;  I  ought  rather  to  send  to  the 

[123] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


ladies  rose-coloured  poems  and  baskets  full 
of  love-tales. 

But  no!  1  am  still  too  near  Paris.  Every 
day,  even  among  my  pines,  the  capital 
splashes  me  with  its  melancholy.  At  the 
very  hour  that  1  write  these  lines,  I  learn  of 
the  wretched  death  of  Charles  Barbara,  and 
my  mill  is  mourning  bitterly.  Adieu,  curlews 
and  grasshoppers!  1  have  now  no  heart  for 
gayety.  And.  that  is  why,  madame,  instead  of 
the  pretty,  jesting  story  that  I  had  determined 
to  tell  you,  you  will  have  again  to-day  a 
melancholy  legend. 

There  was  once  a  man  who  had  a  golden 
brain;  yes,  madame,  a  golden  brain.  When 
he  came  into  the  world,  the  doctors  thought 
that  the  child  would  not  live,  his  head  was  so 
heavy  and  his  brain  so  immeasurably  large. 
He  did  live,  however,  and  grew  in  the  sun- 
light like  a  fine  olive-tree;  but  his  great  head 
always  led  him  astray,  and  it  was  heartrend- 
ing to  see  him  collide  with  all  the  furniture  as 

[124] 


The  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain 

he  walked.  Often  he  fell.  One  day  he  rolled 
from  the  top  of  a  flight  of  stairs  and  struck 
his  forehead  against  a  marble  step,  upon 
which  his  skull  rang  like  a  bar  of  metal. 
They  thought  that  he  was  dead;  but  on  lifting 
him  up,  they  found  only  a  slight  wound, 
with  two  or  three  drops  of  gold  among  his 
fair  hair.  Thus  it  was  that  his  parents  first 
learned  that  the  child  had  a  golden  brain. 

The  thing  was  kept  secret;  the  poor  little 
fellow  himself  suspected  nothing.  From  time 
to  time  he  asked  why  they  no  longer  allowed 
him  to  run  about  in  front  of  the  gate,  with  the 
children  in  the  street. 

'*  Because  they  would  steal  you,  my  lovely 
treasure!  "  his  mother  replied. 

Thereupon  the  little  fellow  was  terribly 
afraid  of  being  stolen;  he  went  back  to  his 
lonely  play,  without  a  word,  and  stumbled 
heavily  from  one  room  to  another. 

Not  until  he  was  eighteen  years  old  did  his 
parents  disclose  to  him  the  miraculous  gift 
that  he  owed  to  destiny;   and  as  they  had 

[125] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


educated  and  supported  him  until  then,  they 
asked  him,  in  return,  for  a  little  of  his  gold. 
The  child  did  not  hesitate;  on  the  instant — 
how  ?  by  what  means  ?  the  legend  does  not 
say — he  tore  from  his  brain  a  piece  of  solid 
gold  as  big  as  a  nut,  and  proudly  tossed  it 
upon  his  mother's  knees.  Then,  dazzled  by 
the  wealth  that  he  bore  in  his  head,  mad 
with  desires,  drunken  with  his  power,  he  left 
his  father's  house  and  went  out  into  the  world, 
lavishing  his  treasure. 

From  the  pace  at  which  he  lived,  like  a 
prince,  sowing  gold  without  counting,  one 
would  have  said  that  his  brain  was  inexhausti- 
ble. It  did  become  exhausted,  however,  and 
little  by  little  one  could  see  his  eyes  grow  dull, 
his  cheeks  become  more  and  more  hollow. 
At  last,  one  morning,  after  a  wild  debauch, 
the  unfortunate  fellow,  alone  among  the  rem- 
nants of  the  feast  and  the  paling  candles,  was 
alarmed  at  the  enormous  hole  he  had  already 
made  in  his  ingot;  it  was  high  time  to  stop. 

[126] 


The  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain 

Thenceforth  he  led  a  new  kind  of  life.  The 
man  with  the  golden  brain  went  off  to  live 
apart,  working  with  his  hands,  suspicious  and 
timid  as  a  miser,  shunning  temptations,  trying 
to  forget,  himself,  that  fatal  wealth  which  he 
was  determined  never  to  touch  again.  Un- 
fortunately a  friend  followed  him  into  the 
solitude  and  that  friend  knew  his  secret. 

One  night  the  poor  man  was  awakened 
with  a  start  by  a  pain  in  his  head,  a  frightful 
pain.  He  sprang  out  of  bed  in  deadly  alarm, 
and  saw  by  the  moonlight  his  friend  running 
away,  with  something  hidden  under  his 
cloak. 

Another  piece  of  his  brain  stolen  from  him! 

Some  time  after,  the  man  with  the  golden 
brain  fell  in  love,  and  then  it  was  all  over.  He 
loved  with  his  whole  heart  a  little  fair-haired 
woman,  who  loved  him  well,  too,  but  who 
preferred  her  ribbons  and  her  white  feathers 
and  the  pretty  little  bronze  tassels  tapping  the 
sides  of  her  boots. 

In  the  hands  of  that  dainty  creature,  half 

[1271 


Alphonse  Daudet 


bird  and  half  doll,  the  gold  pieces  melted 
merrily  away.  She  had  every  sort  of  caprice; 
and  he  could  never  say  no;  indeed,  for  fear 
of  causing  her  pain,  he  concealed  from  her 
to  the  end  the  sad  secret  of  his  fortune. 

'*  We  must  be  very  rich,"  she  would  say. 

And  the  poor  man  would  answer: 

'*  Oh,  yes!  very  rich! ''  and  he  would  smile 
fondly  at  the  little  bluebird  that  was  innocent- 
ly consuming  his  brain.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, fear  seized  him;  and  he  longed  again  to 
be  a  miser;  but  then  the  little  woman  would 
come  hopping  towards  him  and  say: 

**Come,  my  husband,  you  are  so  rich,  buy 
me  something  very  costly." 

And  he  would  buy  something  very  costly. 

This  state  of  affairs  lasted  two  years;  then, 
one  morning,  the  little  woman  died,  no  one 
knew  why,  like  a  bird.  The  treasure  was 
almost  exhausted;  with  what  remained  the 
widower  provided  a  grand  funeral  for  his  dear 
dead  wife.  Bells  clanging,  heavy  coaches 
draped  in  black,  plumed  horses,  silver  tears 

(128] 


The  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain 

on  the  velvet  —  nothing  seemed  too  fine  to 
him.  What  mattered  his  gold  to  him  now  ? 
He  gave  of  it  for  the  church,  for  the  bearers, 
for  the  w^omen  who  sold  immortelles ;  he  gave 
it  on  all  sides,  without  bargaining.  So  that, 
when  he  left  the  cemetery,  almost  nothing 
was  left  of  that  marvellous  brain,  save  a  few 
tiny  pieces  on  the  walls  of  his  skull. 

Then  people  saw  him  wandering  through 
the  streets,  with  a  wild  expression,  his  hands 
before  him,  stumbling  like  a  drunken  man.  At 
night,  at  the  hour  when  the  shops  were 
lighted,  he  halted  in  front  of  a  large  show- 
window  in  which  a  bewildering  mass  of  stars 
and  jewels  glittered  in  the  light,  and  he  stood 
there  a  long  while  gazing  at  two  blue  satin 
boots  bordered  with  swan's-down.  **  I  know 
some  one  to  whom  those  boots  would  give 
great  pleasure,"  he  said  to  himself  with  a 
smile;  and,  already  forgetting  that  the  little 
woman  was  dead,  he  went  in  to  buy  them. 

From  the  depths  of  her  back-shop,  the 
dealer  heard  a  loud  outcry;    she  ran  to  the 

8  [129] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


spot,  and  recoiled  in  terror  at  sight  of  a  man 
leaning  against  the  window  and  gazing  at  her 
sorrowfully  with  a  dazed  look.  He  held  in 
one  hand  the  blue  boots  trimmed  with  swan's- 
down,  and  held  out  to  her  the  other  hand  all 
bleeding,  with  scrapings  of  gold  on  the  ends 
of  the  nails. 

Such,  madame,  is  the  legend  of  the  man 
with  the  golden  brain. 

Although  it  has  the  aspect  of  a  fanciful  tale, 
it  is  true  from  beginning  to  end.  There  are 
in  this  world  many  poor  fellows  who  are 
contented  to  live  on  their  brains,  and  who  pay 
in  refined  gold,  with  their  marrow  and  their 
substance,  for  the  most  trivial  things  of  life. 
It  is  to  them  a  pain  recurring  every  day;  and 
then,  when  they  are  weary  of  suffering 


[130] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 


[181] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

A  Christmas  Tale 
I 

"  n^WO  truffled  turkeys,  Garrigou?" 

1  *'Yes,  father,  two  magnificent  tur- 
keys stuffed  with  truffles.  I  know  something 
about  it,  for  I  myself  helped  to  stuff  them. 
One  would  have  said  that  the  skin  would 
burst  when  they  were  roasting,  it  was  dis- 
tended so.'* 

** Jesus-Maria!  and  I  love  turkeys  so  dearly, 
Give  me  my  surplice  quickly,  Garrigou.  And 
what  else  did  you  see  in  the  kitchen  besides 
the  turkeys  ?  " 

**  Oh,  all  sorts  of  good  things.  Since  noon, 
we  have  done  nothing  but  pluck  pheasants, 
lapwings,  pullets,  chickens,  and  heath-cocks. 
Feathers  flew  in  every  direction.     And  then 

[133] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


from  the  pond  they  brought  eels,  golden  carp, 

trout,  and " 

'*  How  big  are  the  trout,  Garrigou  ?" 
'*  As  big  as  that,  father.  Enormous!  '* 
"  Mon  Dieti !  it  seems  to  me  that  I  see 
them.  Did  you  put  the  wine  in  the  cups  .^" 
*'Yes,  father,  I  put  the  wine  in  the  cups. 
But  indeed!  it  is  no  such  wine  as  you  will 
drink  before  long,  after  the  midnight  mass, 
ffyou  could  just  look  into  the  dining-hall  at 
the  chateau,  and  see  all  those  decanters,  filled 
with  wines  of  all  colours.  And  the  silver  plate, 
the  carved  centrepieces,  the  flowers  and  the 
candelabra!  Never  again  will  such  a  reveillon  ' 
be  seen.  Monsieur  the  marquis  has  invited  all 
the  nobles  of  the  neighbourhood.  There  will 
be  at  least  forty  at  the  table,  without  counting 
the  notary  and  the  bailiff.  Ah !  you  are  very 
fortunate  to  be  one  of  them,  father!  Simply 
from  smelling  those  fine  turkeys,  the  odour  of 
truffles  follows  me  everywhere.     Meuh!  " 

^Reveillon, — a  late   supper;   a  supper   after  midnight; 
specifically,  a  Christmas-eve  feast  or  revel. — [Trans.] 

[134  1 


The  Three  Lrow  Masses 

**Come,  come,  my  boy!  Let  us  beware  of 
the  sin  of  gluttony,  especially  on  the  eve  of  the 
Nativity.  Go  at  once  and  light  the  candles, 
and  ring  the  first  bell  for  mass;  for  midnight 
is  near  at  hand  and  we  must  not  be  late." 

This  conversation  took  place  on  Christmas 
night  in  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  six 
hundred  and  something,  between  the  Rev- 
erend Dom  Balaguere,  former  prior  of  the 
Barnabites,  and  now  stipendiary  chaplain  of 
the  Lords  of  Trinquelage,  and  his  little  clerk 
Garrigou,  or  rather  him  whom  he  believed  to 
be  his  little  clerk  Garrigou;  for  you  must 
know  that  the  devil  on  that  evening  had 
assumed  the  round  face  and  insignificant 
features  of  the  young  sacristan,  that  he  might 
the  more  easily  lead  the  father  into  temptation 
and  induce  him  to  commit  the  frightful  sin  of 
gluttony.  And  so,  while  the  pretended  Gar- 
rigou (hum!  hum!)  made  the  bells  of  the 
seignorial  chapel  ring  out  lustily,  the  rev- 
erend father  finished  attiring  himself  in  his 
chasuble,  in  the  little  sacristy  of  the  chateau; 


Alphonse  Daudet 


and,  with  his  mind  already  perturbed  by  all 
these  gastronomic  details,  he  repeated  to  him- 
self as  he  dressed: 

**  Roast  turkeys,  golden  carp,  and  trout  as 
big  as  that!  " 

Without,  the  night  wind  blew,  scattering 
abroad  the  music  of  the  bells,  and  one  after 
another  lights  appeared  in  the  darkness  on 
the  sides  of  Mount  Ventoux,  on  the  summit 
of  which  rose  the  ancient  towers  of  Trin- 
quelage.  They  were  the  families  of  the 
farmers,  coming  to  listen  to  the  midnight 
mass  at  the  chateau.  They  climbed  the  hill 
singing,  in  groups  of  five  or  six,  the  father 
ahead,  lantern  in  hand,  the  women  enveloped 
in  their  ample  dark  cloaks,  in  which  the 
children  huddled  together  and  sheltered  them- 
selves from  the  sharp  air.  Despite  the  hour 
and  the  cold,  all  those  people  walked  cheerily 
along,  upheld  by  the  thought  that,  after  the 
mass,  there  would  be  a  table  laid  for  them 
in  the  kitchens,  as  there  was  every  year. 
From  time  to  time,  on  the  steep  slope,  the 

[136] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

carriage  of  a  nobleman,  preceded  by  torch- 
bearers,  passed  with  its  windows  gleaming 
in  the  moonlight  like  mirrors;  or  a  mule 
trotted  by,  jingling  his  bells,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  mist-enveloped  torches,  the  farmers 
recognised  their  bailiff  and  saluted  him  as  he 
passed: 

**Good  evening,  good  evening,  Master  Ar- 
noton! " 

''Good  evening,  good  evening,  my  chil- 
dren!'' 

The  night  was  clear,  the  stars  glistered 
more  brightly  in  the  frosty  air;  the  wind  had 
a  sting  in  it,  and  a  fine  hoarfrost,  which  clung 
to  the  garments  without  wetting  them,  main- 
tained faithfully  the  traditions  of  Christmas 
white  with  snow.  At  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  the  chateau  appeared  as  their  destination, 
with  its  enormous  mass  of  towers  and  gables, 
the  steeple  of  its  chapel  rising  into  the  blue- 
black  sky;  and  a  multitude  of  little  twink- 
ling lights,  going  and  coming,  flickering  at 
every  window,  resembled,  against  the  dark 

[137] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


background  of  the  building,  sparks  among 
the  ashes  of  burnt  paper. 

The  drawbridge  and  postern  passed,  they 
were  obliged,  in  order  to  reach  the  chapel,  to 
go  through  the  first  courtyard,  filled  with 
carriages,  servants,  bearers  of  sedan-chairs, 
brilliantly  lighted  by  the  flame  of  the  torches 
and  the  blaze  from  the  kitchens.  One  could 
hear  the  grinding  of  the  spits,  the  clattering 
of  the  saucepans,  the  clink  of  the  glasses  and 
silverware,  being  moved  about  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  banquet,  and  over  it  all,  a  warm 
vapour,  fragrant  with  the  odour  of  roasting 
flesh  and  the  pungent  herbs  of  complicated 
sauces,  led  the  farmers  to  say,  with  the  chap- 
Iain  and  the  bailiff  and  everybody  else: 

'*What  a  fine  reveillon  we  are  going  to 
have  after  mass  !  " 

II 

TING  a  ling!  ting  a  ling,  a  ling! 
That  is  the  signal  for  the  mass  to  begin. 
In  the   chapel   of  the   chateau,    a   miniature 

[138] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

r  = 

cathedral  with  intersecting  arches  and  oaken 
wainscoting  reaching  to  the  ceiling,  the 
tapestries  have  been  hung  and  all  the  candles 
lighted.  And  such  a  multitude!  and  such 
toilets!  First  of  all,  seated  in  the  carved  pews 
which  surround  the  choir,  is  the  Sire  de  Trin- 
quelage,  in  a  salmon-coloured  silk  coat,  and 
about  him  all  the  noble  lords,  his  guests.  Op- 
posite, upon  prie-dieus  of  silver,  the  old 
dowager  marquise  in  her  gown  of  flame- 
coloured  brocade  has  taken  her  place,  and  the 
young  Dame  de  Trinquelage,  with  a  lofty 
tower  of  lace  upon  her  head,  fluted  according 
to  the  latest  style  at  the  French  court.  Lower 
down,  clad  in  black,  with  enormous  pointed 
wings  and  shaven  faces,  are  seen  Thomas 
Arnoton  the  bailiff  and'  Master  Ambroy  the 
notary,  two  sober  notes  among  those  shim- 
mering silks  and  figured  damasks.  Then 
come  the  stout  majordomos,  the  pages,  the 
huntsmen,  the  stewards,  and  Dame  Barbe 
with  all  her  keys  hanging  at  her  side  upon  a 

slender  silver  ring.      In  the  background,  on 
riooi 


Alphonse  Daudet 


the  benches,  sit  the  lesser  functionaries,  the 
maidservants  and  the  farmers  with  their 
families;  and  lastly,  at  the  farther  end,  against 
the  door,  which  they  open  and  close  with 
care,  the  scullions  come  between  two  sauces 
to  obtain  a  whiff  of  the  mass,  and  to  bring  an 
odour  of  reveillon  into  the  church,  which  is  all 
in  festal  array  and  warm  with  the  flame  of  so 
many  candles. 

Was  it  the  sight  of  those  little  white  caps 
which  distracted  the  attention  of  the  celebrant 
of  the  mass;  was  it  not  rather  Garrigou's  bell, 
that  frantic  little  bell  jingling  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar  with  infernal  precipitation,  which  seemed 
to  be  saying  all  the  time: 

*'Let  us  hurry,  let  us  hurry.  The  sooner 
we  have  finished,  the  sooner  we  shall  be  at 
the  table." 

The  fact  is  that  every  time  that  that  devil's 
own  bell  rang,  the  chaplain  forgot  the  mass 
and  thought  only  of  the  reveillon.  He  ima- 
gined the  bustling  cooks,  the  ovens  beneath 
which  a  genuine  forge  fire  was  burning,  the 

[140] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

steam  ascending  from  the  open  saucepans, 
and,  bathed  in  that  steam,  two  superb  stuffed 
turkeys,  distended  and  mottled  with  truffles. 
Or  else  he  saw  long  lines  of  pages  pass, 
carrying  dishes  surrounded  by  tempting  va- 
pours, and  entered  with  them  the  huge  room 
already  prepared  for  the  feast.  O  joy ! 
there  was  the  enormous  table  all  laden,  and 
blazing  with  light;  the  peacocks  with  all 
their  feathers,  the  pheasants  flapping  their 
golden  wings,  the  ruby-coloured  decanters, 
the  pyramids  of  fruit  resplendent  amid  the 
green  branches,  and  those  marvellous  fish 
of  which  Garrigou  had  told  him  (ah,  yes! 
Garrigou  indeed!)  lying  upon  a  bed  of  fennel, 
their  scales  glittering  as  if  they  were  fresh 
from  the  water,  with  a  bunch  of  fragrant  herbs 
in  their  monstrous  nostrils.  So  vivid  was  the 
vision  of  those  marvels,  that  it  seemed  to  Dom 
Balaguere  that  all  those  wonderful  dishes  were 
actually  before  him  on  the  borders  of  the 
altar-cloth;  and  two  or  three  times,  he  sur- 
prised himself  saying  the  Benedicite,  instead 

[141] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


of  the  Dominiis  vobiscum!  Aside  from  these 
slight  mistakes,  the  worthy  man  read  the  ser- 
vice most  conscientiously,  without  skipping 
a  line,  without  omitting  a  genuflexion;  and 
everything  went  well  until  the  end  of  the 
first  mass;  for  you  know  that  on  Christmas 
day  the  same  celebrant  must  say  three  masses 
in  succession. 

*'One!"  said  the  chaplain  to  himself,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief;  then,  without  wasting  a  min- 
ute, he  motioned  to  his  clerk,  or  to  him  whom 
he  believed  to  be  his  clerk,  and  — 

Ting  a  ling,  a  ling,  a  ling!  ting  a  ling! 

The  second  mass  had  begun,  and  with  it 
began  also  Dom  Balaguere's  sin. 

'*  Quick,  quick,  let  us  make  haste!'*  cried 
Garrigou's  bell  in  its  shrill  little  voice;  and 
that  time  the  unhappy  celebrant,  wholly  given 
over  to  the  demon  of  gluttony,  rushed  through 
the  service  and  devoured  the  pages  with  the 
avidity  of  his  over-excited  appetite.  In  fren- 
zied haste  he  stooped  and  rose,  made  the 
signs  of  the  cross  and  the  genuflexions,  and 

[142] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

abridged  all  the  motions,  in  order  to  have 
done  the  sooner.  He  barely  put  out  his  arms 
in  the  Gospel,  he  barely  struck  his  breast  at 
the  Confiteor,  The  clerk  and  he  vied  with 
each  other  to  see  which  could  gabble  faster. 
Verses  and  responses  came  rushing  forth  and 
tripped  over  one  another.  Words  half  pro- 
nounced, without  opening  the  mouth,  which 
would  have  taken  too  much  time,  ended  in 
incomprehensible  murmurs. 

"  Oremus  ps  — ps  — ps ' ' 

'' Mea  culpa— pa — pa " 

Like  hurried  vine-dressers,  trampling  the 
grapes  into  the  vat,  they  both  wallowed  in 
the  Latin  of  the  mass,  sending  splashes  in  all 
directions. 

"  Dom — scum  !  "  said  Balaguere. 

**  —  Siutuo  !  **  replied  Garrigou ;  and  all  the 
time  the  infernal  little  bell  jangled  in  their 
ears  like  the  bells  that  are  put  on  post-horses 
to  make  them  gallop  at  the  top  of  their  speed. 
As  you  may  imagine,  at  that  rate  a  low  mass 
is  soon  despatched. 

[143] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


*'Two!"  said  the  chaplain,  breathlessly; 
then,  without  taking  time  to  breathe,  flushed 
and  perspiring,  he  ran  down  the  steps  of  the 
altar,  and 

Ting  a  ling,  ling!  ting  a  ling,  ling! 

The  third  mass  had  begun.  He  had  but  a 
few  more  steps  to  go  to  reach  the  banquet 
hall;  but  alas  !  as  the  reveillon  drew  nearer, 
the  ill-fated  Balaguere  was  seized  with  a 
frenzy  of  impatience  and  gluttony.  His 
vision  became  more  vivid,  the  golden  carp, 
the  roast  turkeys  were  there  before  him;  he 
touched  them;  he  —  O  Heaven!  the  dishes 
smoked,  the  wines  scented  the  air;  and  the 
little  bell,  frantically  shaking  its  clapper, 
shouted  to  him: 

''  Quicker,  quicker,  still  quicker!  " 

But  how  could  he  go  any  quicker?  His 
lips  barely  moved.  He  no  longer  pronounced 
the  words.  He  could  only  cheat  the  good 
Lord  altogether  and  filch  the  mass  from  Him. 
And  that  is  what  he  did,  the  villain;  passing 
from  temptation  to  temptation,  he  began  by 

[144] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

skipping  one  verse,  then  two;  then  the  Epis- 
tle was  too  long,  and  he  did  not  finish  it;  he 
barely  grazed  the  Gospel,  passed  the  Credo 
without  going  in,  jumped  over  the  Pater, 
nodded  to  the  Preface  at  a  distance;  and  thus 
by  leaps  and  bounds  rushed  into  eternal  dam- 
nation, still  followed  by  the  infamous  Garri- 
gou  (get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !),  who 
seconded  him  with  wonderful  alacrity,  raised 
his  chasuble,  turned  the  leaves  two  by  two, 
collided  with  the  desks,  overturned  the  com- 
munion-cups, and  all  the  time  shook  the  little 
bell  louder  and  louder,  faster  and  faster. 

You  should  have  seen  the  dismayed  look  on 
the  faces  of  the  whole  congregation  !  Obliged 
to  follow  by  the  pantomime  of  the  priest 
the  mass  of  which  they  did  not  hear  a 
word,  some  rose  while  the  others  knelt,  re- 
mained seated  when  the  others  were  stand- 
ing; and  all  the  phases  of  that  extraordinary 
service  were  confused  upon  the  benches  in  a 
multitude  of  diversified  attitudes.  The  Christ- 
mas star,  travelling  along  the  roads  of  the  sky 

lo  [145] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


towards  the  little  stable,  turned  pale  with 
horror  when  it  witnessed  that  confusion. 

''The  abbe  goes  too  fast.  No  one  can  fol- 
low him,"  muttered  the  old  dowager  as  she 
nodded  her  head-dress  in  bewilderment. 

Master  Arnoton,  his  great  steel  spectacles  on 
his  nose,  looked  through  his  prayer-book, 
trying  to  find  out  where  they  might  be.  But 
in  reality,  all  those  worthy  folk,  who  also 
were  thinking  of  the  feast,  were  not  sorry 
that  the  mass  should  travel  at  that  lightning 
speed;  and  when  Dom  Balaguere,  with  ra- 
diant face,  turned  towards  the  congregation 
and  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  ''He, 
missa  est/'  the  whole  chapel  as  with  one 
voice  responded  with  a  ''Deo  gratias'*  so 
joyous,  so  infectious,  that  they  tancied  them- 
selves already  at  table  honouring  the  first 
toast  of  the  reveillon. 

1" 

FIVE  minutes  later  the  throng   of  nobles 
was  seated  in  the  great  banquet-hall,  the 

[146] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

chaplain  among  them.  The  chateau,  illu- 
minated from  top  to  bottom,  rang  with  songs 
and  shouts,  and  laughter  and  tumult;  and  the 
venerable  Dom  Balaguere  planted  his  fork  in 
the  wing  of  a  chicken,  drowning  his  remorse 
for  his  sin  in  floods  of  the  Pope's  wine  and 
in  toothsome  sauces.  He  ate  and  drank  so 
much,  the  poor  holy  man,  that  he  died  dur- 
ing the  night  of  a  terrible  attack,  without 
even  time  to  repent;  then  in  the  morning, 
he  arrived  in  heaven,  which  was  still  all 
astir  with  the  festivities  of  the  night;  and  I 
leave  you  to  imagine  how  he  was  received 
there. 

''Depart  from  my  sight,  thou  evil  Christ- 
ian! "  said  the  Sovereign  Judge,  the  Master  of 
us  all.  **Thy  sin  is  monstrous  enough  to 
efface  a  whole  lifetime  of  virtue.  Ah!  thou 
didst  steal  a  mass  from  me.  Even  so!  thou 
shalt  pay  for  three  hundred  masses  in  its 
place,  and  thou  shalt  not  enter  paradise  until 
thou  hast  celebrated  in  thine  own  chapel 
these  three  hundred  Christmas  masses,  in  the 

[1473 


Alphonse  Daudet 


presence  of  all  those  who  have  sinned  with 
thee  and  by  thy  fault." 

And  this  is  the  true  legend  of  Dom  Bala- 
guere,  as  it  is  told  in  the  land  of  olives.  The 
chateau  of  Trinquelage  does  not  exist  to-day, 
but  the  chapel  still  stands  erect  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Ventoux,  in  a  clump  of  green  oaks. 
The  wind  sways  its  disjointed  door,  the  grass 
grows  on  the  threshold;  there  are  nests  at  the 
corner  of  the  altar  and  in  the  embrasures  of  the 
tall  windows,  whence  the  stained  glass  long 
since  vanished.  But  it  appears  that  every 
year,  at  Christmas,  a  supernatural  light  wan- 
ders among  the  ruins,  and  that  as  they  go  to 
the  midnight  masses  and  the  reveillons,  the 
peasants  see  that  spectral  chapel  lighted  by 
invisible  candles,  which  burn  in  the  open  air, 
even  in  the  snow  and  the  wind.  You  may 
laugh  if  you  please,  but  a  vine-dresser  of  the 
neighbourhood,  named  Garrigue,  doubtless  a 
descendant  of  Garrigou,  tells  me  that  one 
Christmas  eve,  being  a  little  tipsy,  he  lost  his 

[148] 


The  Three  Low  Masses 

way  on  the  mountain  towards  Trinquelage; 
and  this  is  what  he  saw.  Until  eleven  o'clock, 
nothing.  Everything  was  silent,  dark,  lifeless. 
Suddenly,  about  midnight,  a  carillon  rang  out 
at  the  top  of  the  belfry;  an  old,  old  carillon, 
which  seemed  to  be  ten  leagues  away.  Soon, 
on  the  road  up  the  mountain,  Garrigue  saw 
flickering  flames  and  vague  shadows.  Be- 
neath the  porch  of  the  chapel,  people  walked 
and  whispered: 

**  Good  evening,  Master  Arnoton !  " 
*'Good   evening,  good   evening,   my  chil- 
dren." 

When  everybody  had  gone  in,  my  vine- 
dresser, who  was  very  courageous,  noise- 
lessly drew  near,  and  looking  through  the 
broken  door,  saw  a  strange  spectacle.  All 
those  people  whom  he  had  seen  pass  were 
arranged  around  the  choir,  in  the  rained  nave, 
as  if  the  benches  of  olden  time  still  existed. 
Fine  ladies  in  brocade,  nobles  belaced  from 
head  to  foot,  peasants  in  gaudy  jackets  such 
as  our  great-grandfathers  wore,  and  all  with  a 

[149  J 


Alphonse  Daudet 


venerable,  faded,  dusty,  weary  aspect.  From 
time  to  time,  night-birds,  the  ordinary  oc- 
cupants of  the  chapel,  aroused  by  that  blaze 
of  light,  fluttered  about  the  candles,  whose 
flames  ascended  straight  towards  heaven,  as 
indistinct  as  if  they  were  burning  behind 
gauze;  and  one  thing  that  amused  Garrigue 
greatly  was  a  certain  individual  with  great 
steel  spectacles,  who  kept  shaking  his  old 
black  wig,  upon  which  one  of  those  birds 
stood  erect,  with  its  feet  entangled  in  the  hair, 
silently  flapping  its  wings. 

In  the  background,  a  little  old  man,  with  a 
childish  form,  kneeling  in  the  middle  of  the 
choir,  shook  desperately  a  tongueless,  voice- 
less bell,  while  a  priest,  dressed  in  old  gold, 
went  to  and  fro  before  the  altar,  repeating 
prayers  of  which  not  a  word  could  be  heard. 
Beyond  a  doubt  it  was  Dom  Balaguere,  say- 
ing his  third  low  mass. 


[150] 


The  Two  Inns 


[1511 


The  Two  Inns 

I  WAS  returning  from  Nimes,  one  July  after- 
noon. The  heat  was  overwhelming.  The 
scorching  white  road  stretched  out  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see,  a  dusty  line,  between  gar- 
dens of  olive-trees  and  of  scrub-oaks,  beneath 
a  huge  sun  of  dull  silver,  which  filled  the  whole 
sky.  Not  a  sign  of  shade,  not  a  breath  of 
wind.  Nothing  save  the  vibration  of  the  hot 
air,  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the  grasshoppers,  a 
mad,  deafening  music,  at  a  hurried  tempo, 
which  seemed  the  very  resonance  of  that 
boundless,  luminous  vibration.  I  had  been 
walking  through  this  desert  for  two  hours, 
when  suddenly  a  group  of  white  houses  de- 
tached itself  from  the  dust  of  the  road  before 
me.  It  was  what  is  called  the  relay  of  St. 
Vincent:  five  or  six  farmhouses,  long,  red- 
roofed  barns,  a  watering-trough  without 
water,  in  a  clump  of  meagre  fig-trees^  and,  on 

[153] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


the  outskirts  of  the  hamlet,  two  large  inns 
looking  at  each  other  from  opposite  sides  of 
the  street. 

There  was  something  striking  in  the 
proximity  of  those  two  inns.  On  one  side,  a 
iarge  new  building,  full  of  life  and  animation, 
all  the  doors  thrown  open,  the  diligence  stop- 
ping in  front,  the  steaming  horses  being 
unharnessed,  the  passengers  drinking  hastily 
on  the  road,  in  the  short  shadow  of  the  walls; 
the  courtyard  crowded  with  mules  and 
vehicles;  carters  lying  under  the  sheds,  await- 
ing the  cool  of  the  evening.  Within,  outcries, 
oaths,  blows  of  fists  on  the  tables,  the  clink- 
ing of  glasses,  the  clicking  of  billiard-balls,  the 
popping  of  corks,  and  above  all  that  uproar, 
a  jovial,  ringing  voice,  singing  so  loud  that 
the  windows  shook: 

"  Pretty  little  Margoton, 
As  soon  as  dawn  was  waking, 
Took  her  silver  pitcher, 
And  went  off  to  the  well." 

The  inn  opposite,   on  the  contrary,   was 

[154] 


The  Two  Inns 


silent  and  seemed  deserted.  Grass  under  the 
gateway,  shutters  broken,  over  the  door  a 
rusty  twig  of  holly  hanging  like  an  old  plume, 
the  door-step  strewn  with  stones  from  the 
road.  It  was  all  so  poverty-stricken,  so  piti- 
ful, that  it  seemed  an  act  of  charity  to  stop 
there  and  drink  a  glass. 

On  entering,  I  found  a  long  room,  deserted 
and  dismal,  which  the  dazzling  light,  entering 
through  three  curtainless  windows,  rendered 
even  more  dismal  and  deserted.  A  few 
rickety  tables,  on  which  stood  broken  glasses 
dull  with  dust,  a  dilapidated  billiard-table, 
holding  out  its  four  pockets  as  if  asking  alms, 
a  yellow  couch,  an  old  desk,  slumbered  there 
in  an  oppressive  and  unhealthy  heat.  And 
the  flies!  flies  everywhere!  I  had  never  seen 
so  many:  on  the  ceiling,  clinging  to  the  win- 
dows, in  the  glasses,  in  swarms.  When  I 
opened  the  door,  there  was  a  buzzing,  a 
humming  of  wings  as  if  I  were  entering  a  hive. 

At  the  end  of  the  room,  in  a  window-recess, 

[155] 


Alphonse  Daudet 


there  was  a  woman  standing  close  to  the 
window,  busily  occupied  in  looking  out.  I 
called  her  twice: 

**Ho  there!  hostess!'' 

She  turned  slowly,  and  showed  me  the 
face  of  a  poverty-stricken  peasant  woman, 
wrinkled  and  furrowed,  earth-coloured, 
framed  by  long  lappets  of  rusty  lace,  such  as 
the  old  women  in  our  neighbourhood  wear. 
She  was  not  an  old  woman,  though;  but 
much  weeping  had  faded  her  completely, 

**What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

*'To  sit  down  a  moment  and  drink  some- 
thing." 

She  gazed  at  me  in  amazement,  without 
moving  from  her  place,  as  if  she  did  not 
understand  me. 

**Is  n't  this  an  inn.^" 

The  woman  sighed. 

'*  Yes,  it  is  an  inn,  if  you  choose.  But 
why  don't  you  go  opposite,  like  all  the  rest  ? 
It  is  much  more  lively." 

[156] 


The  Two  Inns 


''It  is  too  lively  for  me.  I  prefer  to  stay 
here  with  you." 

And  without  waiting  for  her  reply,  I  seated 
myself  at  the  table. 

When  she  was  quite  sure  that  I  was  speaking 
seriously,  the  hostess  began  to  go  and  come 
with  a  very  busy  air,  opening  doors,  moving 
bottles,  wiping  glasses,  and  disturbing  the 
flies.  It  was  clear  that  a  guest  to  wait  upon 
was  an  important  event.  At  times  the  un- 
happy creature  would  stop  and  take  her  head 
in  her  hands,  as  if  she  despaired  of  ever 
accomplishing  anything. 

Then  she  went  into  the  rear  room;  I  heard 
her  shaking  great  keys,  fumbling  with  locks, 
looking  into  the  bread-box,  blowing,  dusting, 
washing  plates.  From  time  to  time  a  deep 
sigh,  a  sob  ill  stifled. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  this  business, 
I  had  before  me  a  plate  of  raisins,  an  old  loaf 
of  Beaucaire  bread,  as  hard  as  sandstone,  and 
a  bottle  of  sour  new  wine. 

**  You  are  served,"  said  the  strange  creature; 

[157J 


Alphonse  Daudet 


and  she  turned  back  at  once  to  her  place  at 
the  window. 

As  I  drank,  I  tried  to  make  her  talk. 

*'  You  don't  often  have  people  here,  do  you, 
my  poor  woman  ?  " 

*'0h,  no!  never  any  one,  monsieur.  When 
we  were  alone  here,  it  was  different;  we  had 
the  relay,  we  provided  hunt-dinners  during 
the  ducking-season,  and  carriages  all  the  year 
round.  But  since  our  neighbours  set  up  in 
business,  we  have  lost  everything.  People 
prefer  to  go  opposite.  They  consider  it  too 
dull  here.  It  's  a  fact  that  the  house  is  n't 
very  pleasant.  I  am  not  good-looking,  I  have 
fever  and  ague,  and  my  two  little  girls  are 
dead.  Over  yonder,  on  the  contrary,  they 
are  laughing  all  the  time.  It  is  a  woman  from 
Aries  who  keeps  the  inn,  a  handsome  woman 
with  laces,  and  three  bands  of  gold  beads 
round  her  neck.  The  driver  of  the  diligence, 
who  is  her  lover,  takes  it  to  her  place.  And 
then  she  has  a  lot  of  hussies  for  chamber- 
maids, so  that  she  gets  lots  of  custom!     She 

[158] 


The  Two  Inns 


has  all  the  young  men  from  Bezouces,  Redes- 
san,  and  Jonquieres.  The  carters  go  out  of 
their  way  to  pass  her  house.  And  1  stay  here 
all  day  without  a  soul,  eating  my  heart  out." 

She  said  this  in  a  distraught,  indifferent 
tone,  with  her  forehead  still  resting  against 
the  glass.  There  was  evidently  something 
which  interested  her  at  the  inn  opposite. 

Suddenly,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road^ 
there  was  a  great  commotion.  The  diligence 
moved  off  through  the  dust.  I  heard  the  crack- 
ing of  the  whip,  the  postillion's  bugle,  and 
the  girls  who  had  run  to  the  door  calling  out: 

'' Adiousias  I  adiousias  !  '*  And  over  it  all 
the  stentorian  voice  that  I  had  heard  before, 
beginning  again,  louder  than  ever: 

**  She  took  her  silver  pitcher, 
And  went  off  to  the  well  ; 
From  there  she  could  not  see 
Three  soldiers  drawing  near." 

At  that  voice  the  hostess  trembled  in  every 
limb,  and,  turning  to  me,  she  said  in  an 
undertone: 

(159) 


Alphonse  Daudet 


'*Do  you  hear?  That's  my  husband. 
Does  n't  he  sing  well  ?  " 

I  gazed  at  her  in  stupefaction. 

**What.^  Your  husband.^  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  he  goes  there  too  ?  " 

Thereupon,  with  a  heart-broken  air,  but 
with  the  utmost  gentleness,  she  replied: 

'*  What  can  you  expect,  monsieur?  Men 
are  made  that  way;  they  don't  like  to  see 
people  cry;  and  I  cry  all  the  time  since  my 
little  girls  died.  And  then  this  great  barrack, 
where  nobody  ever  comes,  is  so  melancholy. 
And  so,  when  he  is  bored  too  much,  my  poor 
Jose  goes  across  the  road  to  drink,  and  as  he 
has  a  fine  voice,  the  woman  from  Aries  makes 
him  sing.     Hush!  there  he  goes  again." 

And  she  stood  there,  as  if  in  a  trance, 
trembling,  with  her  hands  outstretched,  and 
tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  which  made 
her  look  uglier  than  ever,  to  hear  her  Jose 
singing  for  the  woman  from  Aries: 

**  The  first  one  said  to  her  : 
'  Good  day,  my  pretty  dear  !  *  " 
Ci<>01 


Monday  Tales 

(1873)   . 


[183) 


The  Last  Class 


[185] 


